I awoke this morning, covered in sweat. I could still feel your presence, like a phantom limb.

The human condition

Which want pulls tight the ties of our internal tide? More questions than answers these days. Before I was me I was still who I was, it’s just that was different than who I am. Now in these redundant mediocre thoughts I drown. Where did it go, that spark, that divine pain that permeated and pushed creativity? In times of great joy, pain and intoxication that voice came to me. It spoke in hard words. It screamed. A curse, a gift, a dash of psychosis? This place, this quiet place isn’t serenity. The silence, the absence of that pain is a pain in and of itself.

I used to be such a burning example. I used to be so original. I used to care.

More questions than answers. More road ahead than behind. More love than hate. More mundane than exceptional. Not self doubt just here, just here like every other person. No more war dreams, no more screams, no more. 

A statue lives it's lifespan without pain but without pleasure. 

The pelting droplets of life falling from the heavens make the grey granite face not cold or calm, the sun has no jubilee. The calm calescent ocean breeze or the gale force application of adversity. The sweet soft serenade of an infant’s inhalation heard over the clap of the not so distant thunder, the calamity of conformity and the heroism of retreat.

That spark, the spark that ignites the internal flame of what must be divine.

Which want pulls tight the ties of that internal tide? When we dip our pen, take only one example from the statue, stand the test of time. Be not grey, be not cold and without movement. Bring the hard chills from the root of your spine like a lightning bolt of life echoing explosive electric energy. Splash the canvas of life with your vibrant ink. Be the new word etched in tomorrow's dictionary. Be the graffiti on the face of that stone face bastard.