I'm starting to feel a lot better than I have been, hence the outpouring of creativity and posts (sorry to be spamming your newsfeed like that...I just get so excited about some things.) So anyway....here's my newest writing idea. Hope you like it! Even though few people actually read my stuff.

I see things, vivid things. Art, I guess, in my mind's eye, although I can never quite capture it. Feelings, sounds, such striking images all piece themselves together, and, and the mood, the colors, the feeling and the memories! How could I possibly capture all this on paper? I don't know if the things I see will become reality someday, but I have such strong feelings about them. This may be truth, though some would say that more likely it is only my perception, my brain working with my personality and memories to create such things in my head and in my head only. I hope for the sake of humanity that they are right. And sometimes I hope that they are wrong. I look at my walls and I see them covered in art and writing--mine, and that of others. I see the room this way and as it was when I was a child, serene and peaceful, shades fluttering in gentle breezes that rustle the trees The room is lit only by streaming sunlight, and with the strength of memory, the baby could still be sleeping here, except she is not. There is no crib. The toddler could be bouncing on the bed, but it is not the toddler's bed. There is carefully made art on the walls. Whose hands made these, wonder the last of the human survivors, as they touch the artwork. Then they pull back, staring in amazement, feeling the reverberations of the songs and feelings woven into this work. Mine. In that instant they know all of me and at the same time are aware of how little they know of me. Peace and singing, creation, love, pain, so many things beyond words and green trees and flowers in the breeze, a dollhouse at church and a row of old mailboxes and a crafted wooden birdhouse. Scattered crayons and a child at peace in a car seat, bundled in a thick coat, cradled in the snow, in a parent's arms. Mornings of pale blue dawns and cool breezes, horses and sunrises, dew on the grass, iron gray skies giving in to early day heat coming across the mountains. The mountains. The streams. A life of songs, soft tunes and the car radio. The cars that are rusting to their deaths in the driveway. The cars that no longer work, but they could. Could they? They sing with life lost and what has once been and are hollow for what is never coming back, like the little girl who loved the cliffs and the seagulls and the ocean and the boat, the beach and the sunny hotel room, the day her mother bought her candy on the boardwalk and she tasted the salt and got her hair wet and stared at the endless waves, at the world she would grow up and take on, the flawed world although she did not know it yet, could not know to what extent. She was eager to taste life, to grasp it in her hands, but for the moment she was content to stay snuggled in her sweatshirt on the boat, safely cradled against the cold in her father's arms. And then they gasp and step away. Or maybe not. They are strangers or they are my great-great grandchildren, unaware of the deep connection here. Unaware of everything pressed into the art of this room. The memories. The girl who fought the Death and sometimes let it win. They do not know. They only know that precious sweet life was lost here, as well as countless other vibrant stories. So many potentials lost, and yet still life and still hope, because where there is life, there is hope. Humanity knows it down to its core. To lose hope is to lose life even if the body still breathes. And maybe these young budding humans are overcome with emotion. They bloom. They grow up in that room. Age so much for their young years. The emotions consume them and they stare and think and gasp and breathe, tears falling silent as snow, the snow that the little girl caught on frozen fingertips as she watched her world turn to a clean, quiet magic and the chance to start all over again, although the people do not know this. They catch their tears on their tongues and fingers, or their tears fall into the carpet where my tears and sorrows once fell, although they do not know. I see a vivid sunset in an old overgrown field full of chirping crickets. No human sound. Peace at last, says the Earth without words. Quiet. A chance at life for all my other children. The human vile contraptions break down into much simpler things until the Earth is the place of my childhood, with sweet breezes and lush trees reclaiming the Earth after we chewed them down with our angry metal monsters that do not feel and love to taste the pain and bones of nature, such ugly things. The trees are coming back. Big windows and sunlight. Old mailboxes. Stained glass on a calm afternoon. And this field, this sunset. All that's left to mark all history here is a chain-link fence stretching as far as the eye can see in either direction. Maybe the silhouette of an old bike is visible leaning against the fence. Or maybe it is not. The grasses weave in and around the links, which are slowly rusting away. Soon there will be no more fence. Nothing to hold back the zombies, right? Only there are no zombies. That was an old human concept. Without them there are no zombies, just their echoes. Nothing here has ever heard of zombies. On the other side of the fence is an old water tower, reaching up, its structure the bones of human civilization. Water tower against a vivid sky. And then a human comes walking up, a human, a survivor and an explorer, a carrier of hope and potential, almost ready to sleep just like the day is, just like the world is. That tired calming evening magic is in the air like summer fireflies and the bubbles that children used to blow in the summertime. Bubbles that drifted, were chased by laughing little fingers and small running feet and adults' weary, slightly envious smiles. This human walks slowly, away from the skeleton of the old dead city with clawed fingers still reaching up into the sky. The city that was something full and bright, buzzing too. Just ghosts and memory and what once was, now. This person reaches the fence. Observes it wonderingly as a newborn baby looks at its world for the first time. In a way that's exactly what this human is. Discover. Learn yourself. An old world, a dead world, a whole new world, a baby dawn and new era, sunrise and sunset. You can't change the past, but you make the future. A new time of the dinosaurs, but without them. The human touches the fence and stares up at the water tower, maybe dripping tears, maybe not, maybe thinking and feeling or maybe with a blank mind. Then they begin to walk along the fence, not looking back at the direction from which they came. Back turned on the old city and the flawed ways and the heavy past, into the cool morning and soft night, into the future, into the new life.