Kindling

Too awake to dream, yet still too sick with sleep to rouse in me the fire of my mind. Smoldering and finding there's nothing left to burn. I must push on. Give into the rhythm and flow that lies beyond me, and let the letters fall as words in sentence sequence, hoping that the guiding hand behind them has good penmanship. Art is a risk. A journey of exploration in which, if done correctly, destroys what came before. The artist, immolated like a Phoenix at it's end, reduced to ashes and coal; a new medium in which to work.

search party

Elusive passion hunts its own source, lost in the tangles of self-consciousness. Freedom knows the boundaries, preaching the possibilities which lie inside the migrator pattern of word and deed. Such dogged pursuit, yet the results of such a strenuous search yield naught but exhaustion. The worry of the sand-filled glass trickles out in measured increments, filling the void with nothing but the absence of time. It is not a gift, but a lifestyle change: wresting control from the ego and transferring it to the self. Becoming not who one wants, but who one is meant to be. Acceptance.

making snowflakes

Illuminated arguments the kind whose point lies skewed within the confusion of the conflict, the only way of understanding is to rearrange the words to reflect in positive light. The truth understands that a sunset made of purple means that beauty comes even at the end. But time still has a plan; the resistance of comfort is alluring, but one must learn that though it is possible to build on the drive of pressing circumstance, it is the pattern which emerges naturally which lasts throughout the years.

The great return

Crystal lear advancement of an irate beauty, the haze begins to clear in the wash of setting sunlight. Like a storm that's gone so long, the weeping finally cases, and with a cry less like thunder than ever before we move on. It's an epiphany, red and bright and out of place in the encroaching night, but it stands there, reckoning nonetheless. There is spring in the step once more, a sense of purpose once thought lost amongst the confusion. And despite an interruption, the clarity remains, understanding that all things move towards their opposite, and we now come back to love.

Wash[ed] Up

The world of flash and glamour fades room my periphery. Walls of falseness evaporate like phantoms in receding fog, and I'm left with a new found calm. Outside the machine it's all so simple. The wilderness sounds wash through my ears and cleanse mind. It's been so long since I've heard the symphony of silence. Too many years spent lost in the vibrations of artifice, it's as if each doubtful buzz clings to me like caking mud. And though still slothful, the sludge is cracking under the warm sun. Soon it shall crack and fall from me, and as I shed the skin of former self, I will make my way to the water's edge. Without fanfare, the lake of rain shall wash me clean.

The Horseless Rider

Fighting to attain a sense of self inside this freeform fantasy. The given limits exist to guide journey, though so far little in the way of promises has been kept. Yestereve I asked for the gift of passion to be bestowed upon this numbness called my life. For quite some time now I have floated through this life in imitation, matching the movements of those around me, but failing to feel the connection to anything. It is this void in my emotions which reflects in my creations. Shells of ideas withouts hearts or souls. I've lost my way as I've lost myself. My only hope is that direction lies somewhere within.

phantom friends

I awake from a time when a half-forgotten friendship had turned into the blossom of romance. A real life former friend and neighbor sat troubled in my mind. And as dreams are apt to do, this one brought us together, and for a few confused moments, we kissed while I slept. Something about her wounded nature pulled me in; whatever situation I was able to project upon her seemed to make sense at the time, but waking up I'm left to wonder why so much energy went into a vision of a person I no longer see.

What comes from endings

The death of things, even as they fall down inside a dream, should not be looked upon with a sad eye, rather remembered with a fondness that allows for further growth. For it is always that way in the cycle of existence, as endings serve to mark the moments when beginnings sprout anew. Today it is the death of fear that we celebrate, watching as its anxiety crumbles before the promise of fresh ideas. We have journeyed to this moment, and though we are weary, our quest has just begun.

The scent of taste.

The fiery tingle in my mouth signals the spice has touched my taste. Such flavor tied to long-past memories skips across my tongue as if to speak these dark remembrances. The first of many sensory reminders, reasons for return; rejuvenation through sight and sound and touch and taste. Proceeding forward with an eye in the rear view, it's hard not to grow distracted by reminiscence. Let the past inform the present, and go out into the new. The amorphous expanse of current life has room enough to grow, so long as the edges remain just slightly out of view.

Laid up

Sinus pressure, the old and unwelcome enemy strikes out again in another attempt to bend my will to his. Too much rides on my ability to function at this time, therefore I refuse to budge from my position. Just so long as my position is resting in bed. Anyone want to bring me tea?

Leaving town.

The winds which urge me onward, teased by the notion of the new, swirl in a forward vortex. The progression towards the new and exciting stands as an intimate and ultimate; all things move to an end, even as their just beginning. Thusly I'm incensed against the weariness which hangs at the corner of my eyes, and nearing the 7 year anniversary of my Westward venture, I head Southwest. Back to the roots of my inception and the core of my inspiration for a refresher course on what it means to be me. Without the artifice of internet avatar, and faced with the mirror of true self, I will purge the impurities and come back a better me.

allergic contraction

Fighting against a malady in a bad time for a battle. So much to do and so little time to do it leaves no room for recuperation. But it must get done, apparently at the expense of health and comfort.

Clearance granted.

Fantasy becomes reality when learning to fly, an act so fraught with falling that only a flailing of limbs will generate lift. It is the moment before the plunge that holds such tension. The decision made upon the precipice to surrender oneself to the greater understanding of purpose. To scream into the void, "this is my life," and be answered back with the advice, "then live it." For as easy as it is to dream, it is just as easy to live that dream once the idea of its feasibility is accepted. Make up your mind, put yourself in a future place, and then do all things that lead you there.

Be careful what you wish for.

The fear of failure runs deep inside of me, barking dark doubts at every turn. I've grown used to its frightened abuse, accepted it as a necessary evil on most accounts. A new fear, however, has crept up, camouflaged by the goodwill of accomplishment, the fear of success. It's a strange and shivering feeling, to be afraid of achievement. Will I be able to manage, cope, handle all that comes my way as a result? Living up to my potential happens to be a terrifying goal, mostly because I have such high expectations of myself. I must take it day by day, and focus on being productive.

Be Prepared.

As the old scout saying intimates, anything can happen. My mind turns its focus to an end game scenario, and strangely I am calm. My thoughts race from one survival tactic to the next, but overall I am at peace with the notion that soon I may have to defend myself, my property, and those I love. Something is coming, even if it is just a shift in thinking, no more radical than a change of mind, I must be ready. It's funny how similar the preparations are for a camping trip and those for a global economic collapse. Good thing I like the woods.

flecks able

The lesson of flexibility stretches through my world in a long-legged change of plans. Uncontrollable forces rearrange days and I'm left to deal with the new situation, but perhaps this is part of the learning experience. Even in an open system rules apply, and it becomes important to understand that the illusion and comfort of "control" come from the supplication of acceptance. Strapped to the seat of a roller coaster, one can painfully strain to resist the turns, or accept the path and enjoy it. As for me? Look ma, no hands.

crunch (time)

It's the pressure cooker effect, an exponential increase in productivity forced into existence by the removal of excess time. It's the spice of added urgency, the sighting of the checkpoint; never underestimate the power of a milestone. The balance is shifting, and inside the hunger grows. Wealth depletes along with time, and with it goes the stale comfort, flaking off like char from firewood. The embers are glowing, almost ready. Soon the crucible will reach high enough temperature to forge new expressions, and from that heat creativity will radiate new life.

Let's get down to business.

Sloth seeps from my pours in an oozing lethargy, onset by the tedium of forced relaxation. With the intention of growing disillusioned by the freedom of vacation, I've rested now to the point of sickness, tired from too much sleep. An excited tremor grows inside of me and buzzes with the knowledge that soon this binge will turn to purge, and the stagnation shall flow out in a tidal wave of productivity.

Bass fishing

Looking for the bass line amidst the rhythmic shuffle I listen to hope as it noodles through the scale, but within the depths of the pocket I feel no resonance and hear no inspired argument to give me cause to deviate from my path. As much as it is the musical backbone, it is a distinct voice which has the responsibility of guiding change, and it's just not there. So we play on, despite the erratic knee-jerk dissonance associated with a lacking understanding. And, like dining on lukewarm food, the satiation is all but pleasurable. The beat and search goes on.

The final countdown

One week left before I set out on adventure. One week left to organize and get in order the life to which I shall return. One week left to laze about and soak in the indulgences of idle hands. The grip of vice holds loosely to me, knowing that its days are numbered. We spent spring amongst the meadow, and summered in the shadow of the tree line. This fall, however, marks the beginning of the focused and defined effort to summit the mountain before me.

Role models

This gratitude comes freely to a life so blessed with guidance and support. It is truly with grace that I thank the chain of events that has led me to where I stand today. Not that I have reached some pinnacle or achievement, rather I have merely stayed upon the path on which I initially set out when I set my goals. When you give yourself no other options, success becomes imminent, however you choose to define it. For me, success is defined by follow-through and achievement of will. Most often it comes from within, but not usually before heeding the advice of those around me. It pays to listen to others, if only to know what to expect when living the experience yourself.

the best, by:

The currency of time spends itself so easily in the company of such a welcomed guest. Unlike so many moments before, every second builds upon the next to weave a tapestry of beautiful memory. These are days worth remembering, filled with light-hearted laughter and the warmth of summer sun.

Arc of the coveted.

As time passes, the lesson of character steeps further into the folds of my understanding and I'm able to see the importance of interconnectedness. In the same dualistic sense of macrocosm and microcosm, we can see in every person a smaller kernel of human truth, each unique to their path in life. Realizing the imperfect nature of others helps us come to terms with the flaws within ourselves. In watching another grow, we can relate to their struggle and identify on a personal level. This is true in story and in life. We are all one, reflections in a shattered mirror, individual yet the same.