In other words, if you're worried about losing it you never had it anyway.
Damn. What a three months.Coming home in one week. Can't wait. I miss everybody. Seriously though read this. There's some seriously deep shit in there.
The earth shattered underneath new footsteps, the kind of caverns in indentations for worm and foliage while the sun beamed down fire from the boughs above, little illuminations of autumn given from the sky. A crisp drag of fallen temperatures stung this man’s lungs, his eyes crescent- clinching against the wind. It was good to be alive again.
His destination proved relative to the metaphysical urgency of arriving, this was a man who knew that wherever his feet would go his heart would not always follow. In fact it was the pace at which he moved through the cascade that begets a sanguine streamline just bold enough in the stratosphere to maybe feel at harmony with the universe. Like the sort of clockwork. Because truth be told it’s hard enough to feel all right when there are so many different places you think you’d like to go. And in a sense that’s just the problem, there seems to be a difference between thinking and knowing and it’s hard to think that one is even equipped with the circuitry to know what that is. So you find solace in little things. And this man, his heart’s content rested in the shadow moving in perfect timing with the crunch of his feet along the path.
Half-huddled, his sweater’s hood reaching out the back of his flannel jacket and over his head, he shuffled his hands into his pockets when he got back to destination, his mind’s eye surveying the horizon. This was a man who this time had feet a blink behind his heart. His metaphysical urgency was relative to an immaterial state that would be brought on, but not determined by his feet. In fact it’d be entirely accurate to say that his destination lay farther beyond his feet’s cessation. Yes, this man, this time, on this day knew. And he knew so deep that the current dragged him under, pressing him for air and leaving enough slack just so he could fight back to the surface and take a breath before pulling him down again. Until breathing became easier and his lungs swelled so wide that the water’s volley could not interrupt his crescent eyes from seeing more than when they were wide and out of the dark. His direction turned the doorknob.
There was no plan because the postulations were minor to the decision to move. Such should be the consideration for the point at which we suffice were there not a man who could proclaim that it is raining and yet not that it is both raining and wet. Tired grow the branches under sleet and sun likewise do men’s hearts asked to palpitate and reason with blood. It is because of this and solely because of this that this man could manage the yoke of his perceptions against the background of a volatile and often times domineering outside that stung his lungs, forced a squint, chapped his hands, and caused his nose to drip so one could reasonably presume that the theater is indeed inside the hide and show no bravado with this proclamation.
But, aye, let them have that it is not and prove with unyielding riposte that this man sought not fraud but fact and moved to touch it with his fingertips. Have them display like their laurels the moment this man has arrived and demonstrate that his egress is not woven in the fabric of his specter, the synecdoche that is he, the idea this man would become and perhaps they would point to a night he slept well next to his beloved or the morning march back with game in tow and with negligence treat the matter that without fancy there should be nothing fanciful. For only they could tire so trying to have something that only they could possess nothing at all.
The earth shattered underneath new footsteps, the kind of caverns in indentations for worm and foliage while the sun beamed down fire from the boughs above, little illuminations of autumn given from the sky. A crisp drag of fallen temperatures stung this man’s lungs, his eyes crescent- clinching against the wind. It was good to be alive again.
His destination proved relative to the metaphysical urgency of arriving, this was a man who knew that wherever his feet would go his heart would not always follow. In fact it was the pace at which he moved through the cascade that begets a sanguine streamline just bold enough in the stratosphere to maybe feel at harmony with the universe. Like the sort of clockwork. Because truth be told it’s hard enough to feel all right when there are so many different places you think you’d like to go. And in a sense that’s just the problem, there seems to be a difference between thinking and knowing and it’s hard to think that one is even equipped with the circuitry to know what that is. So you find solace in little things. And this man, his heart’s content rested in the shadow moving in perfect timing with the crunch of his feet along the path.
Half-huddled, his sweater’s hood reaching out the back of his flannel jacket and over his head, he shuffled his hands into his pockets when he got back to destination, his mind’s eye surveying the horizon. This was a man who this time had feet a blink behind his heart. His metaphysical urgency was relative to an immaterial state that would be brought on, but not determined by his feet. In fact it’d be entirely accurate to say that his destination lay farther beyond his feet’s cessation. Yes, this man, this time, on this day knew. And he knew so deep that the current dragged him under, pressing him for air and leaving enough slack just so he could fight back to the surface and take a breath before pulling him down again. Until breathing became easier and his lungs swelled so wide that the water’s volley could not interrupt his crescent eyes from seeing more than when they were wide and out of the dark. His direction turned the doorknob.
There was no plan because the postulations were minor to the decision to move. Such should be the consideration for the point at which we suffice were there not a man who could proclaim that it is raining and yet not that it is both raining and wet. Tired grow the branches under sleet and sun likewise do men’s hearts asked to palpitate and reason with blood. It is because of this and solely because of this that this man could manage the yoke of his perceptions against the background of a volatile and often times domineering outside that stung his lungs, forced a squint, chapped his hands, and caused his nose to drip so one could reasonably presume that the theater is indeed inside the hide and show no bravado with this proclamation.
But, aye, let them have that it is not and prove with unyielding riposte that this man sought not fraud but fact and moved to touch it with his fingertips. Have them display like their laurels the moment this man has arrived and demonstrate that his egress is not woven in the fabric of his specter, the synecdoche that is he, the idea this man would become and perhaps they would point to a night he slept well next to his beloved or the morning march back with game in tow and with negligence treat the matter that without fancy there should be nothing fanciful. For only they could tire so trying to have something that only they could possess nothing at all.