Park Bench Friend

Here I sit on this park bench, so lost in my thought that it takes a moment to recognize that the words so abruptly spoken in the peaceful silence are directed at me.
“What happened to the back of your head?”
Ah yes, THOSE words. Who else would they be directed toward?
I swivel around and see her standing there- long, wavy, dark, dark hair, oval-shaped, sapphire blue eyes, the most angelic of faces-
“Care to hear an engaging tale?” I query.
“I don’t have much time, actually,” is her response.
“What happened to the back of my head nearly cost me my life,” I tell her calmly. “I would be tearing myself down if I spent only five seconds on it. If you’d like to take a rain check, though, I come here five, six days a week.”
She looks at me in silence. Seeing nothing on her face to lend belief to the idea of her staying to talk, I turn back to the front and, taking a deep breath, begin the process of losing myself in my thoughts again. It is so much more comforting in here than out there. Lately- and by lately I mean my latest convalescence, and the prior medical fiasco that necessitated it- I am finding it my only place of psychological resort and retreat. Seeing that I don’t care to spend much of my precious time in “reality” because of its relative lack of appeal, I have lost myself in my thoughts, unaided, for hours at a time. Aided, I have spent months. My goal, such as it is, is to lose myself in them forever. Those who do not like this or do not agree with it will have a problem- it’s their problem. Thank goodness I only answer to God. He knows the reasons for everything I do. I think he is kinder than I know or even can understand.
My thoughts are again interrupted. Vibrations spread from the seat of my pants to the rest of my body. I glance to my right to see her sitting there with an expectant look on her beautiful face.
“I’ll listen,” she says.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
“So you’re a walking miracle,” she concludes.
“You could say so,” I nod, “If you believe in miracles.”
“I don’t,” she tells me. “But I believe you.”
“I appreciate it. Not everyone does.”
“How many have you told?”
“Thousands have heard my story. That doesn’t mean I was the one to tell them all.”
“Thousands? How is that even possible?” she asks incredulously.
“It becomes easier when you tell a bunch of them all at once. Quantity, then quality, though there are times when I think I might have wanted things to turn out differently.”
She cocks her head to one side. “You don’t like how things have turned out?”
“I don’t dislike it,” I explain. “That doesn’t mean that things might not have been better otherwise.”
“How so?” she asks, calmly this time.
“It has made me susceptible to bouts of empty, meaningless pride. That, in turn, has made it nearly impossible for me to put my mind to the task I was meant to accomplish.”
“What task is that?”
“I was born to write,” I say, smiling at her. “My task is to write something to change the world- the entire world- for the better.”
She smiles back at me. “What sorts of things do you write, when your pride doesn’t stop you?”
Ah, she is listening still. “I write poetry, short stories, and when I can keep that pride of mine in check, I’m writing a novel.”
“What’s your novel about?”
I tell her in brief.
“That sounds interesting. It’s definitely a wide open field.”
“I enjoy having room to work with, although, I have run into a snag or two. Even with the unique topic I have found, the ways of getting to the story’s ending have been blocked, because the ideas have already been used. I want my book to be original as much as possible. I have learned that originality is not something easily come by.”
“Could you write something right now, if someone asked you?”
“I could,” I say to her. “What would I write about?”
“You are really passionate about helping other people through your writing. How about you write about something you have done in your writing that has helped someone?”
I mull it over for a second. “How about something that is helping or will help? Does that work?”
“Sure,” she laughs easily. It was a very happy sound.
“Here we go, then.

Sitting so quietly upon a log deep in a forest glade, an angel tiptoes up to me as my memories all fade. Placing a hand upon my brow, she says, you’re feeling low. I will help you, I will heal you, I will make your being glow. As soon as her heavenly skin rests upon my own, I am borne on wings of mercy to a place I might call home. Angels of light and darkness I see as my vision is unfurled; I realize as I view these souls, this is my own real world. Each of these souls, so bright and so dark, I have touched and have touched me. And every one has played a part in the effort to make me free. Look, she says, and I will show you, the lives that have touched yours, And the lives that have felt your touch upon most distant shores. One by one I view them all, counting not the passing hours. My body feels not the burning sun not the cloudbursts’ falling showers. I am lost in memory, the happy and the glad; but of all that has changed me, I know not whether has been to the good or bad. Would you like to see what happened to the angel who saved your life? Would you like to know what has become of her through all these years of strife? Yes, I answer shakily, though I am frightened to the core, please tell me what became of my angel, she whose spirit I adore…”

“Wow,” she says quietly. “You came up with that right now? That isn’t something you’ve memorized?”
“Nope. Purely improvisation.”
She laughs again. I am beginning to like the sound. “Do you have any of your poetry memorized?
“I do.”
“Well I like your impromptu poetry; maybe I will like your memorized poetry too. What do you have for me?” she asks, a twinkle in her eye.
It is my turn to laugh. “Here we go again. This is called Dark Angel.

Black and white, bitter and sweet, emperors and kings, yet so obsolete. Oxymoron all over the earth confuses the difference of anger and mirth. Outside does not matter, but what is inside counts, we cannot judge a soul by external amounts. And so others see a child of hell; she is definitely not, simply a darker angel. Diseases and sickness can fly through the air, but rumors go faster, and without a care. They see a bright devil who hides the heart well, but I? I see a beautiful dark angel…”

She was quiet for a moment. “You wrote that about someone you knew, didn’t you?”
It takes me a moment to respond. When I do, my voice is strained.
“Yes."

Flash of inspiration

If wishes were fishes there wouldn't be enough water in the oceans and lakes and rivers and streams to hold them all. Likewise with dreams. Perhaps the answer is not to wish for great things, but plan for great things. Your focus determines your reality. Create the reality you want to experience in your own mind, then behave as though that reality is already beginning to occur. Then enjoy the ride as your actions naturally follow to make that reality your own. LET IT BE!