Flicker
In a quandary, as if perpetually, searching out an energy to excel my synapses into motion: from apathy to accomplishment, through the channels of creativity and dedication, I hope and thrive, as if for glory, not ascertained but extended, rebounding and circling again.
"Stop putting it off," he said to me, as if my quandary were personally offensive; my energy making him at ill ease, like the beams of the setting sun blasting the retina through a crack in the blinds; so much power, but so unexpected, loved but overwhelming because of the setting, the situation-- yet I was the indecision, the lack of proclivity.
I would look about the room, wondering what would inflict that inertia, something to stimulate my substance into action.
"Stop putting it off," he all but demanded.
I couldn't use my spectacles to evoke a spektakel of flourishing creativity; if myself were a fuel then I would flicker and fade. I had to find the source, and be a channel, allowing that which pours out to fill up and burst forth; no longer excavating the caves of my mind, as if diamond were there; the air was the energy, and if I could but puff in and put out something greater the sparks would fly, yes, the fairies of light would flutter; little clouds of particles colliding above our heads, the fireworks of the imagination visible hallucination, or at least a fictitious sensation presenting itself as reality. I grasped hold, and plunged forth, thankful for the opportunity.
"Stop putting it off," he said to me, as if my quandary were personally offensive; my energy making him at ill ease, like the beams of the setting sun blasting the retina through a crack in the blinds; so much power, but so unexpected, loved but overwhelming because of the setting, the situation-- yet I was the indecision, the lack of proclivity.
I would look about the room, wondering what would inflict that inertia, something to stimulate my substance into action.
"Stop putting it off," he all but demanded.
I couldn't use my spectacles to evoke a spektakel of flourishing creativity; if myself were a fuel then I would flicker and fade. I had to find the source, and be a channel, allowing that which pours out to fill up and burst forth; no longer excavating the caves of my mind, as if diamond were there; the air was the energy, and if I could but puff in and put out something greater the sparks would fly, yes, the fairies of light would flutter; little clouds of particles colliding above our heads, the fireworks of the imagination visible hallucination, or at least a fictitious sensation presenting itself as reality. I grasped hold, and plunged forth, thankful for the opportunity.