And when you decide there is only the 10% left the race gets thinner and faster and longer and harder.
Then you decide to fix it after the race is lost. Then you bring the water and tea. Then you bring the skies and the rain. Then the heat flows cold across your face and waters the eyes. Every morning that should happen. At every instance it should be possible.
And now there is not enough time. And now there is no other way than to direct through pieces of paper with protocols and the letter of law. We follow in its directive. One to fit all except for that. Exceptions.
Then we decide how much is enough and where too much gets involved. I will just pick this but you want that… and we hit new times. Hit new highs. Hit deeper and stronger.
It must all be possible. It must all be possible.
And yet the creativity they flaunt comes slow and hard. Like a thick tar on the brain it drips ever so slowly to the fingers. Complaining of time and cramped conditions. None of this. Just create. They say create. They do. They find out. Just play. Like now.
The big letters. The written script. The honed materials and broken shards of glass and metal. Rusted emotions. The expressions of a rational thinker. The rational thoughts of an expressive artist. Yet one and the other compared and contrasted. And the last ones lost to a comfortable lunch and a sit down. A break.
And we are all late. Every one of us. The team. And we will fix it. Because nothing is the end of the world ever. Nothing.