Gosnells Writers Circle
Writefree Women's Writing Group
Here I am: a speck in the world. Going my own way, beside water rippling its necessity and The Circle of Life as a backdrop. Gaining pace, I head towards my rendezvous.
From afar, my impact is like a fly spot on a cathedral's stain-glass window. Hidden against admired beauty. Not seen by those with better things to do than wonder about me – Is he going or coming?
The day will pass. I will achieve; or not.
But am I not an important fragment in my circle of life? And, in the circle of life of those overlapping with mine? Won't expected circumstances change if I do not arrive? Yes! Someone's day will alter – will change immeasurably.
That person who waits. She would miss me. Her existence would be modified. Pockets of her days would have someone else tucked away ‒ because I would be absent.
But, when I do arrive the day will be as planned.
Coffee, pancakes, perhaps a second cup with inconsequential conversation showing meaningful closeness.
We'll touch each other, lingering as tingling of expectation spreads from our physical to the essence of new affection. Our smiles will be just for us ‒ not for the chattering others who fill the road-side café – not for the passing parade of Sunday pedestrians.
We'll share our everydayness, our ordinary hopes for the years ahead, and loll in the unremarkable wishes not yet expressed.
Isn't that enough for me? To be more than an implied speck for just one person. More than a miniscule interference to overwhelming modern art. (An installation criticised by many for monies which could be better spent on practicalities.)
I glance at an arrow of black slashing through the organised horizontal.
Many have said, 'Art reflects life.'
Why not mine? Why not ours?
The years ahead become predictable: We will have lightning bolts of emotions tearing at the ordinary; disruption withering the insignificant – sometimes the wrecking ball of chaos demolishing calm.
I peddle insistently, determined to reach my destination and speak to her of my potential to love ‒ shared love; ever-after love.
Didn't the nineteenth century tabloids announce loves makes the world go round?
And it is so. Love in all its forms, yes, will make the world continue. For without love one lies and cheats, murders and plunders. Moving into a darkness which mankind abhors … or should.
I pass by and concentrate.
The circle of life is mine to own.
I deny I am just a speck.