fairy dust.

I must write, regardless of who reads.
Words are companions to me.

In some ways my sabbatical journey has already begun. A mixed drink with a shot of stress, two fingers of laziness and a wedge of contemplation – on the rocks please.

I muddle my passions, compulsions, failures, nobilities and hopes – smashing them slowly hoping to extract the juice of it all.

Pray I make it.
Make it where?
To what?
To the next part of the journey – to some miraculous healing adventure.
Brasil.
The Holy Grail.
The Fountain of Youth.
A statue, a cup, an eye, a jewel,
A miracle healing my wounds – binding up my worries,
spitting out the other side a man worthy…

Will the magic happen?
Where is the fairy dust now?
In the hours lost to TV, fantasy and the mere ticking of the clock?

Eight days, seven hours, sixteen minutes, twenty-three seconds…
The sabbatical journey begins,
And the journey continues.

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