There was an old sense of ancient familiarity, of destinies forever intertwined in their individuality. I awoke three hours later from when I had entered sleep, about six or so in the morning. I listened to the birds in that hypnotic state of unconscious consciousness and fell backward back into slumber.
After my return home this afternoon, I found what was, in essence, a letter awaiting me from a dear old friend. And the familiarity within that last night became suddenly eerie as I realized another crossing of destinies had occurred, another looping of that red string around my soul's appendages.
There are bridges in life, bridges that span distance, time and spirit. I think I might have been traveling upon one this last night. For, though the images differ, it seems the message was the same: longing for that which is past and unreachable, for that which was never within the tapestry and is so easily confused with that which it is not.
And to think, the night before I had reread a poem I had written for this friend so many years ago. Poetry, it seems, is not a gift given me often, but when it is it comes in force.