Fresh

I hope this is okay:

You sit there, feeling important. Feeling amazing. You sing, you want to dance, you feel good.

You sit, now, but you only do that to write. You're bobbing your head, you're in love, you're enamored with existence, the leaves are sticky and the wheels are so fast you can only think of their position as speed.

Miles per hour is a beautiful standard, and beauty's hard to come by in math.

But, there's humility to be had. Try, once, to record yourself in something you believe yourself to be confident in that you've never experienced as an interpreter.

Record and watch, or listen. Write, then read.

Then, will you wonder? Or wander? Saunter?

Or, will you for once, believe in the beauty you create? Why let it go, when it's all that you are? More than have, but to BE. Sometimes it might be hard to tell the difference, but you are what you are.

You are what you are.

Hear ye, and be see.

Sight is flight from the now, it's abstraction the allows for retraction, it's love that you can never get enough of, just... see. Be.

Find the do. To be or not to be, There's the FUCKING rub, for each and every option.

Of which there are many, as many as there are any, fucking things to be.

Words have meaning, take what you glean, I hope you can demean, if only... you can redefine.

Just don't, please, don't defile. I'm swimming in words, everywhere, a messy pile.

File your own, revile what you've grown, and start fresh, if you haven't already, in your complicated flesh.