Life in a day for some is the same in weeks. Here, though, in my life, days are different than weeks, even different from each other. Each day brings new sights and smells. New colors and tastes fill each new hour. New thoughts bridge gaps between new minutes and a love for all that is life fills each new second. It is now springtime, and never more have I appreciated it than in the autumn of my own spring.
Where once inhabited a fearful awe of howling winds and thunderous cracks there now fills in an inspired appreciation. Steady rainfall is like a mesmerizing pulse, lulling ideas from the deepest, strangest places of thought. All that is needed now is an effort to place these new isms into whatever medium so suits them. Lines on paper, letters on the page, melodies on strings or paint on canvas, these avenues all stem from the same station. The only difference from the past is the sheen of a dusted housing.
Further and further I find fascination on the foggiest days, and come to realize this place I use to settle in and leave musings is an aptly named venue for such pieces of thought. Intellect feeds off inspiration like leave feed off a hazy mist. Rich greens and brown twist and curl, reaching for moisture like lines of thought for a foothold of knowledge. It is a beautiful image.
And to what point does a process such as this strive to, midway through an interpretation of the linguistics of inspiration? Only to once again enter these spaces of confined creativity, to show a presence on a plane of existence long since visited. I want to be here again with renewed vitality and a refreshed sense of purpose. More words, more images, more thoughts, more creativity. More fog.
