The obscurities of the day drive the pages, fuel the manuscript for a life of soul searching and intellectual curiosity. There are pieces gone, missing pieces, in a car, in a home, remaining lost and cannot be put together regardless of intent. Even intending to be more is a translation that fades as indecision and inaction work their way through the veins of our lives.
The pages in the manuscript turn, and words invite the reader in and he is welcome past any particular nuance or grammatical error: the feeling is all. Yet, where can we draw the line between what we feel and what is real? How can this play out in an unsuspecting mind, used to : MTV and new seasons of The Bachelor. We are running towards decay, where the tomb awaits a speedy decline...
A regular man, doin' regular things. Keep it regular.
1 comment:
regular implies mediocre
that aint u folk
it aint me
acknodledge and live the gift and tram itnsfor
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