It often returns to the past, making its way to the present. Skating upon dogwood, leaping in spirit, or seated silently trying to feel the universe—some without mentions, seated there in essence, if to speak it—it might be true. You were awakened early. Everyone had expectations.
Angelica! Spent time evading destiny. Spent time rebelling against holiness: Shakes erupted. I knew not, had no reference to it, just presumed, based on instinct. Such simmering. Stew brewing. Just enough at times to gain insights. The present sees life with subjugation at heart: No
need in submitting to speculation. She might trance out, eyes rolling, scudding through spheres—celestial connectivity—pushy, marinating in chi. I do at times project; nevertheless, the future is mystery and anti-promise. At a point in life, it appears to happen with difficulties. The past and
present appear superconscious, engaged with life, notwithstanding the existential. To know for turns, heaven alleys, hells and chi corners. While in focus, I might see cloudberries, I might see faces. Life is racing and in stillness—greater charms, of course, ageless needs, maturing
requirements: similar laughs, disputable happiness, the cup is half full: perceptive, a necessity to guide thoughts, challenge negativity, to demand of life its fruits and delicacies.
