I'm taken a back. Taking a wack to the head, Jack.
I look in side and it no worky here no morey. Words
are not coming out easily, fluently. I sit and stare at
a blank canvas. A line. An idea that has little idea. And there
is no beauty. And there is only hard work.
Wishing that things would flow. Like the
flow of my fingers knowing where the keys are hitting the
keyboard. Knowing how to, when to, automatically, auto
pilot. Flowing water down mountain top drip through rock,
stone, hard substance. Finding it's way. Drip. Drop.
Wanting ideas to shine, mountain top beam truth. Wanting
to set an example for myself to live by but not wanting to make
that example impossibly difficult, perfect. Know that you are going forth.
Slowly finding truth, but not beating yourself up over it. On it.
Thinking of icons. Towers. Built for little nuggets. Chicken
fried. Tied. Peeping out of their plastic side. vibe. I see it in
the distance. It is perfection. We are all gathered round.
Laughing. Well rested. Well fed. And it was all worth the test.
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