DON’T FIGHT THE POWER
Conspicuously absent, I make no apologies for the disappearing act, for albeit far gone, I’m still around, just nowhere to be found.
For this, I blame it on the power, that overwhelming feeling I’ve succumbed to nearly every night for the last two weeks or so - sleep.
We’ve been so incredibly diligent here for the last 14 days that by nine, no more than ten, I, as is everyone else at the homestead, am in bed.
By day, we spin incessantly like tornadoes upon the high desert plains. Until now, we had cut a path without purpose, randomly spinning like tumbleweed riding upon a whim.
But now, somehow, we’ve found our meaning, notre raison d’être, in the silt, and the sandy loamy soil; in bedrock and cliff sides and the monsoons riding down the gnarly cut of the arroyo.
In flocking ravens, looming hawks and the coyotes crying every night - we find the solace of nature, the bane and blessing of living outside the chain, pretending our reign abets control.
Tick-tock, time gently folds me back in, and onto slumber I go. There, I continue dreaming, but then again, sometimes it is not much different than when I’m awake.