Sitting upon the connecting pieces of red clay and mountain stone there are moments of remembering, moments that resurface in the way one surges from the depths of cold pocketed water. These moments of locked away nature rarely drop hints or warnings, but instead rise so quickly it can feel like you disconnected from the bodily vessel that contains your breathing. You say to yourself that the moments do not have the ability to control you anymore, and that the place you are now is far removed from the shadows that once were. When these scattered pieces of torn material become caught on old rusty fences it is okay to honor the emotional releases that accompany them. They often leave a few scratches on top of the layered scars, but denying their existence can cause gashes in wounds that have worked so hard to formulate protection. Sitting and gazing up towards the velvet skies of midnight I am reminded that the me of now is okay, and the little person inside will need their hand held to remind them they are not alone. There are a million points of light illuminating from the darkness down through the atmospheric planes. They fire through my veins and travel through my circuitry. The surges are reminders, reminders that the parts of us that may not be so pretty need not be in control. They are part of who we are but do not define who we have become.