Life is arbitrary
rulings. That seems unfair. & it shouldn’t be true. You have an agenda. I ponder upon the
interests—thinking as we do. Somewhere low or artificial or quite natural—tides
ebbing, coincidences seeming unlikely, stems sprouting in brains; a plethora of
thoughts, many insecurities—they come, they show interests, they bleed into the
human fabric; sour fiber, electric responses, what we speak of—is the home of
what we might accomplish. Sore concerns. Most watch life—its passings, its many
rules, childhood is a memory, many are recollecting. Those ferns in the
silence; many parades in sadness; often, we must watch the skies, hear its
tacit voice, intuit into its meaning; those dice we threw, the wagers we bet,
the measures some took to keep the bounty. It becomes difficult: each word like
threatening the writer; each fortress falling into speculation. Most carry a
thesis of beliefs, doctoral faith, as they change with time.
