Jasmine and Lavender

All I seem capable of writing about is the culmination of my selfishness, the death of purity and innocence. Even in the paper and ink journals there has been scarcely any words written not dealing with that travesty. It lingers in the air like pipe tobacco smoke, but this is simply suffocating. There is hollowness in my words of the divine, shallowness in my songs of praise.

The simple joys of my life have been reduced to the taste of Jasmine and the aroma of Lavender on my pillow case. No longer do I pine for the company of a woman, those soft precious touches hold no sway. Perhaps, finally, I'm arriving bit by bit at a place of inner solitude one in which there are no soft kisses, gentle words, five dollar pitchers of Amber Bock, or Turkish coffee on the corner.

We learn don't we...perhaps the road ends somewhere we never imagined existed...but its there and we have little choice but walk the wilderness for a spell. Hopefully I can shed this exterior while in these elements...emerge new.