there are patterns I hold as healthy as breathing, and there are those I’d rather shed like dead skin.
healthy is the weekly fermentation, the visitation of cessation. the daily undoing of self, I could do without. Like the ENTP algorithm that told me who I was in eleventh grade, I’m still looking outside myself for answers.
Stir the pot and see what boils. Try new spices, new aromas. Always move the spoon from left to write.
There are tiny acts of creation every day, why did I chose my canvas and you, yours? They are all palimpsests and we are all marionettes. We create because we are in motion. We are blind fish in a Mammoth cave.
I think from time to time about the way that happiness sneaks up on me. one minute, a wall, the next, a window. yes, it should always feel difficult, but to swim with or against the current?
contrasts create meaning, this I believe. why, then, are we all blind?