I'm not from here, I'm imported.

The Call To Write

In these quiet moments between dusk and dawn

I find myself again

The pneuma always ready and waiting

Unearthing a new and dewy treasure

Words flowing unbridled from spirited pages within me

Echoes of a greater calling

Perhaps all past memories are a mere grouping of things one puts in an old shoe box, left hidden away in a room with the door closed. 

All you have to do is enter and peruse those faded recollections page by page, ornament by ornament. 

Once you’ve left that room far behind, you then enter the hallway, which is the present moment. 

You all have you need then and there, with no possible reason to re-enter that room filled with past things and people. 

You can stay as long as you like in the present. 

And of course, there’s the future to consider. 

It lies beyond the front of your house: unseen and unknown. 

Like the past, you must open a door and take a single step. 

Only now, you move forward, always blindly, until the sunlight hits your face and your feet touch solid ground. 

You could always turn back and re-enter the house. 

You never quite linger in the hallway of present experiences though, but you are sure to always retrace your steps back to the room of past recollections.

Whether you go backwards or forwards, you are a shark. 

Hard, serrated edges to you, hunting ravenously for the next enthralling moment in time. 

At all costs, you must keep moving. 

You never stay still, not long enough, anyway.