Too far past it

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.

Eyes to the Wind

Brown puddles on the Earth. Sand stained and eroded. Head in the blow. Flows of it, whisping across the ripples with grains in a blast. Grating against the surface of the planet. Hurtling at the next solid immovable.

They duck in from their perch. Below the whips and lashes. One tiny step by step into the unforgiving wall of wind. The Earth aches and bellows. Pushing forward with its groans against the growth that has sprung upon it.

And irrelevant it seems, without the required cleanse. We wait for the next respite from exposed structures and the heart of the beast. Enjoying its angry disposition.

Whites sticks on blue

Whistling wind. White sticks in blue landscape scraping horizons on blue canvas. Vertical slits in the peaceful yonder. The wind howls reminders. Don’t stop.

Rattling through every hole in the spectrum of light this does not cease to easily. I was here once in the dark, nearly alone, watching the rain come down in relative calm. And now… Fresh… Life rejuvenating… This wind is ceaseless wonder. Scraping horizons with white sticks on blue canvas.

Ultimately I a, searching for an outlet.. Disappointed with ,y recent effort. The wind, shakes and rolls like my intentions, constrained by a greater power. Yes I need that space and time… But you know it is all in your mind waiting to be released. Intentions require nothing more than effort. Give it.

There is something building. A new phase… The gap has been beneficial in showing the faults and the brilliance of before. Clearer ideas lead to better results but it is easy to forget the effort that went in before. Something is building… A new phase. A phase that will bring a lot of this together… Something that will satisfy this wind.

I just wonder if it is more or less important than the rest…

I want something fresh.

A today something new will go out.