Thoughts of a Colorado Scorched Nihilist.

The fire had scortched her heart like it had seared the hillside.  The trees stood like black sentinels overlooking her downhill valley drive toward money.  Black sentinels that reflected the scar she had experienced in mentally giving up everything, yet winding up losing nothing.  They reigned on the horizon, and reminded her of the futility of it all.

Nothing felt better than being in the FJ.  Driving in the FJ made her feel in control, ready to drive away from any harm that came at her.  She could think in the FJ, knowing it was hers, her big blue ox, taking her into the forest, to remember her origins.

She loved her woman.  She loved holding her at night, hugging her tightly as her body became more toned - she could get closer to her lover's core as she lost weight, and it made the love linger longer in the morning.  The morning would come, bright with anticipation of newness, of birth, of hope, only to be dashed by chasing the money to give to a landlord and the debtors who don't care.

Death didn't seem like the end in nature the way it felt in the cultural construct of the mental framework of neurons derived from years of social conditioning.  She looked at the sentinel trees, lonesome in their death, yet their sacrifice gave more life to the understory, and the grasses and shrubs had already begun to fill in.  Death gave new life.  She thought of that, recalling a week prior releasing her father's cremains on the tundra.  His ashes lingered there for a while, defying the wind, and then dispersing to provide new carbon to the alpine.

Tomorrow she would have to return to the concrete palace of her monetary need.  She did not look forward to it.  She hoped it would be different, that something positive would happen, that the monotony wouldn't be as painful or as empty of meaning as the morning drive felt.  She hoped it wouldn't be hurtful, that kindness would discover her, that compassion would dance in her heart and she would remember the joy she had in lovemaking on her weekend.

Her lover's health concerned her.  She looked at her silent sleeping lady, curled up with the black cat stray who had chosen her, and wondered if she could ever provide the economic stability needed to make her lover not hurt so much physically.  She couldn't think of anything but to go back to school.  She wanted to provide for her beloved, for her beloved was the kind of soul-family that is so  perfect it defies logic and science.  It was a phenomenon, and it was to be treasured.  The cat placed his paw on her arm as she typed, and the silence of his love and her lovers arm wrapped around her waist was all she lived for.  It was divine, if there was divinity at all.

On the dusk drive not too many evenings ago, she saw an owl.  The owl looked right at her and her lover, as if to burn it's intense energy into them.  The owl healed the burn caused by the fire; it reminded the women of unity, of the greater picture.  But those symbols fade into the grey of concrete and cash and debt, and soon they were afraid once more.

The woman had woken this morning to the image of her beloved being t-boned in the corolla.  The corolla didn't have adequate protection from those kinds of impacts.  She received the call, coming from her in-laws, who the State had deemed next of kin.  She didn't even know her beloved hadn't made it into work.  She held her crumpled and cold body in the morgue, her tears falling on it's hard lifelessness.

What is the purpose of life?  To torture the soul with the hope of eternal love?  To taunt the inner child into believing it isn't broken?  All I know is that my beloved and my cats mean more to me than money, more to me than happiness, and more to me than false dreams of a broken childhood.