How to Return to Life without Science or God.
This isn't the beginning of some new life or a return to who I am. It can't be because a return implies that I was already here and clearly through the passage of time I wasn't and will never be here again once here takes it's turn as well. This moment in time is where I am currently and hopefully the woes will take their aim to fortify for production and increased output.
The goal or aim is simple enough. Change life directions, but that's a complicated thought with obstacles complicated enough to do something about it. I've never been one to be the 16yr old who makes something of myself through shear will and determination of my own. I've always needed the prod in the back and the push of another. This is the direction that will change.
Once I had a muse, but I crumpled her and I up and threw us away. The buzzing in my ears of us was too much for my small mind to completely wrap itself around. Like using a hand towel to dry with. So I threw our hand towel away and it tore me in three one of hers, one of mine, and one of us in the past. A dream vision that will never rise to fruition again. So the three separated and the only piece left of our hand towel was a thread. I took that thread and stitched the two pieces I had together; myself and the memory of us. I did not realize I had a fourth piece and a spool of string to work with. The fourth piece being the world around of other influential truths from fellow artists in their respective mediums. So I pulled on the thread and found I had no needle to stitch it to my pieces. It lay on the table in the dining room, seeping into the place settings, and staining the wood. Thread nearby. Dreaming of having wings and a needle.
Then another came along and gave me a reason. Gave me a needle, but this time I didn't use her for the reason. Only the stitching. I did not want the same thing to happen as last time and this time she smiled and I sighed. A generous sigh that comes from missing the part of yourself that others inspire.
This is the catalyst. A transition and this is where it begins. Blame a girl. Blame a pen. In the end I must move along and document it so I know that I've moved, to see the progress. To ensure a forward movement.
The goal or aim is simple enough. Change life directions, but that's a complicated thought with obstacles complicated enough to do something about it. I've never been one to be the 16yr old who makes something of myself through shear will and determination of my own. I've always needed the prod in the back and the push of another. This is the direction that will change.
Once I had a muse, but I crumpled her and I up and threw us away. The buzzing in my ears of us was too much for my small mind to completely wrap itself around. Like using a hand towel to dry with. So I threw our hand towel away and it tore me in three one of hers, one of mine, and one of us in the past. A dream vision that will never rise to fruition again. So the three separated and the only piece left of our hand towel was a thread. I took that thread and stitched the two pieces I had together; myself and the memory of us. I did not realize I had a fourth piece and a spool of string to work with. The fourth piece being the world around of other influential truths from fellow artists in their respective mediums. So I pulled on the thread and found I had no needle to stitch it to my pieces. It lay on the table in the dining room, seeping into the place settings, and staining the wood. Thread nearby. Dreaming of having wings and a needle.
Then another came along and gave me a reason. Gave me a needle, but this time I didn't use her for the reason. Only the stitching. I did not want the same thing to happen as last time and this time she smiled and I sighed. A generous sigh that comes from missing the part of yourself that others inspire.
This is the catalyst. A transition and this is where it begins. Blame a girl. Blame a pen. In the end I must move along and document it so I know that I've moved, to see the progress. To ensure a forward movement.