I can’t write today everything feels cut. Dregs
rolled down to the dirt. The sun is blazing through winter telling me that everything is going to be fine; the sky an
impossible shade of optimistic blue, suggesting that
as the world turns, spring with something "other" will come rising. That somehow
over this lake of burning,new life will call us to a new way. But these
are fleeting thoughts;the calming rays of Sunday are deceptive,because tomorrow
it’s back to commuter journeys,lost time,and the molten burn up of
re-entry. The tethers of work that fixate
and drug; squandering the real breath - the mind and all it’s imaginings. Those lofty
castles that call out to be build,pinned down and wrestled firmly to the ground. Edifices of plenty that would summons a heart. Is it wrong to demand a place to stand without encumber? To spend these precious few years making life
with your own hands? Music,paint, books,words. The real stuff. The real
walk. The only thing that matters in this fucked-up, vertically-integrated, wake-work-sleep till you die life-tax paradigm. MB
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