I was estranged in respects. The saga was heavy. At core,
most people are experiencing disconnection, with parts rooted in humanity. Some
are living to soar, to violin, to say song—the fierce blueness, ocean greens,
seduced by intuition—the frame of the whales, the veins of sharks, the
resilience of penguins. Many are trying to live.
Intuition is a vehicle, a gap between knowledge and
foresight, a ruby, part unverifiable, made dependent on actuality. The reality
is the revealing, when a hunch proves viable.
Some of us have come to assert a given fact,
intuition, with its gray components, is essential to living life: intensity,
wavelength, internality.
A silent trail, paved by doubts, many aren’t claiming
human traits; romantic pangs, strength to persevere, excellence proving
immortal—by touch and dance, the gait of the isolation, the music in daffodils,
some purity in disclosing vulnerability.
I was born to a home; deep sensationalism, exploited
emotions; intuition between family members is strong, powerful, meaning more than
facts. Intuition is unbreakable, made intimate, proving little, in proving
much.
