Tension Is in the Leaves
At peace today, though I could have used a little more sleep what’s new. I haven’t had any urge to write today, only the urge to read and learn. Deduction: the urge to write derives from some tension between myself and the literal and metaphoric architecture of the world I live in. Drive to resolve what's jutting.
Yesterday I meant to jog. The sun was shining. The air looked crisp and still. The wind was hiding. I put on mean black running gear and stepped outside, however, and wind blasted fierce in one ear and out my other. It’s true. It got into my lungs too, and caused a cramp in my belly that didn’t calm until I returned home and stretched some yoga-there there into it.
Since my head was pressed with large cold air and I could only jog bent over at the waist and gasping for air, a sorry limp fish, I walked. I hate that. She doesn’t like to settle for less than she aimed for. I tried to fight it but decided to listen to the voices. They are always on, like a science.
Walking pushed the question again to the stage in my head: what should I do with my life? This is the king of the jungle. I think it always is. Many insects dart in circles: I want to write. I also want to impact the world outside me. I don’t want to sit in an office. I want ecstasy in reading and writing and shifting into exoticism until no norm is left, and again until no norm is left, and on, no norm.
Maybe there is no peace in my teacup today after all. Maybe the what-to-do-in-life question is another god, another mystery that has to remain a mystery in order for there to be gumption to persist.
Pieces of songs I’ve been listening to surface jaggedly into my head and twitch. Sound-images mix with fragments of voxel morphometry and narcoleptic lineage streaming in from Austria, magnetic resonance imaging, sleep dissatisfaction in Portugal, tea both green and black.
Yesterday I meant to jog. The sun was shining. The air looked crisp and still. The wind was hiding. I put on mean black running gear and stepped outside, however, and wind blasted fierce in one ear and out my other. It’s true. It got into my lungs too, and caused a cramp in my belly that didn’t calm until I returned home and stretched some yoga-there there into it.
Since my head was pressed with large cold air and I could only jog bent over at the waist and gasping for air, a sorry limp fish, I walked. I hate that. She doesn’t like to settle for less than she aimed for. I tried to fight it but decided to listen to the voices. They are always on, like a science.
Walking pushed the question again to the stage in my head: what should I do with my life? This is the king of the jungle. I think it always is. Many insects dart in circles: I want to write. I also want to impact the world outside me. I don’t want to sit in an office. I want ecstasy in reading and writing and shifting into exoticism until no norm is left, and again until no norm is left, and on, no norm.
Maybe there is no peace in my teacup today after all. Maybe the what-to-do-in-life question is another god, another mystery that has to remain a mystery in order for there to be gumption to persist.
Pieces of songs I’ve been listening to surface jaggedly into my head and twitch. Sound-images mix with fragments of voxel morphometry and narcoleptic lineage streaming in from Austria, magnetic resonance imaging, sleep dissatisfaction in Portugal, tea both green and black.
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