I go up.

To be taken slowly, savored like chocolate, enjoyed like wine. Rachmaninoff has provided suitable accompaniment. So read on:

Through the haze I see the most beautiful golden hot air balloon ever made waiting for me in a broad green field.
I run and run until I'm safe inside and then, up, up, up I slowly drift.
The ropes creak in the wind and I feel my heart gently melting till it diffuses into liquid light
and flows, glistening to the furthest extremities of myself. The earth spreads out like an open
story book below me, and I read it lovingly even as I fly slowly away. The sky is mine and I hold it
with both arms and recite sonnets to the sun.

I remember who I am.

I remember who my Father is.

I remember that I am loved.

I throw open my window

I love Spring. I peer at the trees every day searching for new growth, willing them to come alive with new green foliage. The sun is so tantalizing, promising so much, keeping you waiting and waiting. Just a little bit here and there to keep you hoping, believing, breathing.

I am inspired this Spring. New thoughts, ideas, desires come washing into my brain, washing over my senses too quickly for me to process. I am in utter anguish. It is now that I feel the passing of time, the wasted days, months, years. It is now that I want most to LIVE. And yet here I sit, desperate to learn, desperate to create, to feel the thrill of accomplishment. I sit here in my room and I listen to heartrending music, and drum my fingers and wander the echoing halls of my mind, wondering, wondering...

I don't hate you Spring. I'm terribly sorry but you must be conquered. Spring, I will conquer you. The window must be thrown open and I must stand under the deluge. I must let the wind blow through my hair, and scatter my thoughts to the furthest corners of my mind. I must allow desire for a moment to fly in and sing so piercing sweet. I must let it chase me to my purpose and chastise me exquisitely until my work is finished.