The Sensorium of Time
The Meeting Place. TWENTY-NINE.
The edge Liv walked away from is the cliff she was told to climb to get to heaven. Hands tied, mouth shut, ears siphoned with hallelujahs and amens, her soft-spoken soul decided to excuse itself from the dinner table of The Father’s Heavy Hand and escape to the forest with Jesus to weep.
Her cellular longings won’t live forever. Regret and confession released now that the creative flow has covered all sins and let her be transmitted to words on a page that, as so many writers have learned, says what it means and means what it says.
Making her way down the page is like walking to the river with the dogs. It is never the same walk twice. The sky beckons but promises nothing. The birds may or may not sing. Her boots may have a pebble in the place that presses against her heel so that Liv has to stop and untie the laces and shake out the offender before she can move on.
The whole of life descends when she is an Awareness With a Pen, dense with The Sensorium of Time, rich with oxygen, spongy with tundra, dusty with sand. Sobs blend with singing and all is raised by the print of her words on the page, that promising place where the story can always begin again. A place that Liv calls heaven.
