Never could make asphalt-meaning. An octave lower than many. Raising hope at times, filled with discernment—radical understanding, country values, always hungering for city life. To catch a vibe, alike to being on stage. (It amazes how spirit will languish, right at the forefront, radiant slumber, latent beginnings.) Lucky participation. Uncanny remnants.
Fierceness of the foregone conclusion—baffled by it all, a daily ritual, this is a great war. Process requires patience, silent disputation, unspoken volume. Feeling like orbit, outer space, nearing familiarity, some type of uncertain comfort; sheer debatable, despite experience, one looking inside—moving faster, keeping pace, until it all slows down.
Another peculiar creature is listlessness. There until it isn’t there. Feeling it rise, as given permission, entrance into the gates. Made to adore, kneeling for prayer, fumbling through underbrush. A long mile, fraught by pit holes; too many snares, each element a game of chess—if to listen to life—fretting the great storms.
It sounds amazing, when goodness strikes, one is looking for its omega, the art of beginnings. Making for passions, to piano charms, trying to be calm, longing for what’s reactive.
