fate is not our final destination. have you recently set aside a line of moments in time to feel the power surging within? when i shut the porch door behind me, wise dog turning her nose toward the wind, i follow suit. looking out across whatever expanse borders your own dwelling, you might feel an inkling of nature return to a civilized cage. it’s that untamed breeze that catches my breath. no guidelines instructing my stance, and no block against the presence of the present. destiny may have led me to this moment, but the stillness was not in its plan. stopping the perpetual motion to dissolve into particulate was an unaccounted threat.
opposites are inexorably linked. a need for control is derived from a history of no control. but for all the imposed rules and expectations, how much do we agree with? and what percentage is ours to move around and expend for personal gain?
often, i’ll transport myself from the door sill to the grass where roots coil down toward the core of our ego-driven universe. but this connection, strangely enough, doesn’t inflame a drive for legacy. inversely, it humbles me to be in touch with a dwarfing ecosystem.
through this state of observation, i notice the shiver dispatched from my feet, but am more concerned about the welfare of the ground i stand on. like a parlor trick, there’s a misconception on the surface distracting onlookers from the underlying mechanics. i don’t plant ten toes on a soppy, refrigerated plain to feel tingles of numbing pain. i’m, reversely, escaping my primordial senses for an even deeper prehistoric relationship — one with life.
possibilities are cramped when you shove them into the past. constantly analyzing, i manhandle dreams and press them into a suitcase of plans written from prior experience. in the midst of constructing a safe route, the beautiful goal is reduced to a dot at the end of a thinly-drawn course. worries, doubts, alternatives, hindrances, and pre-designated villains drain the pull of magnificence. performing on a lit-up stage for a passionate audience isn’t glamorous when stamped with the scarlet, nitty-gritty extracts of soul that must be sold to get there.
were we meant to stomach the future’s entirety in a single serving? of course not. that’s why we live one realization at a time.
when i’m grounded by the scope of a backyard, potential is amassed and released from its sentence of pessimism. as i experience the beauty of sacrificial flora, i envision the beauty of a hard-earned reality. precious delicacies are not delegated based on composition; their reputation is in part built by the strife introducing them to their mate.
the swimming, burning love for existence that passes through me by the soil i teeter on was, is, and will continue to form from hardship. maybe this crumb of glaring eternity tackles me harshly because of the mental depravity i sleepwalk in. like i said, dessert taste its sweetest after starvation.
the prize is a slap of warmth, but the bonus is where amended trophies lie as melted gold, waiting for their shape. once the dead twigs have been snipped, only then do we flourish with the nutrients underneath.
– D K T