Image by 【中文ID】愚木混株 【Instagram】cdd20 from Pixabay
In this house we don’t live in a box, oh no, we live in sound and light and are proud of the moon, and sunsets and sunrises of hope shining. We are the great independent, and we do not come from the belly of the beast.
No; we are made from the shiny brightness and the lovers of magic, yet we are also the fallen leaves on the August path in the time we live where the wind blows us skipping.
Love has us for all we are worth until we have achieved the next level, and then it rests beside us where the sky is sunny blue and our minds swim over the sea. Yes, without love there is no second season.
You can lose many things in here, and find many other things, drifting and loose; sometimes like driftwood washed up on the beach, and sometimes like hope that appears from nowhere.
And though you may stand alone and grumping gravy, you are never far away from all that can save you; you are the mother-lode after all and the blue-stone of all your dreams.
You are the sailor coming home after a long voyage. The bird’s nest revisited to lay more eggs in that season of birth. The possibility found in the quest; and the creative creating.
In the seasons of their making, these things can come to be even where death screams murder and calls for its money back and our politicians obfuscate for all that they are worth. Whatever, seems to be the season of this…
A blue-stone turtle emerging off the shores where the voyagers come in was met with a cat that was a stowaway and had jumped free moments earlier, so that both of them collided and gave up of their gods and went to escape mode and offered their pardons everywhere, and escaping, they made their way forwards into their fate.
Image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay
The yesterday wind that was fit to bust was making its way towards tomorrow as well, and falling along quite nicely, when it hit something in its sway that went bumpety bump and flew along and said nothing much else as it was flying along beside it, and looking from eye to eye to eye.
And in this eye to eye, the fates only can decide the fate of this marginal displacement that comes before you, my lord, said the barrister booboo.
I think we have a lot to catch up on here that we must catch up to, said the robot in the mystical night that was dark as fduck and creeping illusion everywhere.
Many things are said, and many things are not said, and quiet is the silence to hear, but when love calls everyone listens.
Image by Ben Kerckx from Pixabay
The best sounds are the ones that are sounded when they are born to curl your toes. The next best are the fifths of a disorientation that will be playing if you lose to get you back up there or not, your choice.
To maintain who you in the slipstream of this esoteric avalanche you will need a friend; failing this you will be turkey called until you find one seems to be the way of the world; but in this house we are all gypsies travelling along the road and our real friend is the one that is as close as close can be.
An artist creates, explores, sometimes gets it wrong, but is constantly pushing the bounds of his or her imagination…
Image by Evgeniya Litovchenko from Pixabay
And then there are the foreign subversives…
But that’s another story for another time…
Images from Pixabay
