The addiction

Sometimes, and idea (even the smallest of ideas) can catch itself within your mind. If that little sprout of an idea is most determine to stick, and if it tries awfully hard, it can burrow down and latch onto a concrete part of your brain. Possibly, (for the most intrusive of ideas) it latches onto the very essence of you, the very core. And their it starts to feed on your hopes, dreams, fears, insecurities. Whatever. It feeds on whatever it can. Into these private and personal thoughts it sends its roots, intertwining with the most ancient and permanent of your thoughts. Thus better ensuring its survival. At this point your mind has realized the idea is not merely a passing thought. Your mind begins to examine the idea. And it is at this point you can not for the life of you stop thinking on the forementioned idea. Every swelling of the breeze brings your mind back to it's new obsession. You are trapt in a dilemma; should you rebel against this new thought or shall you embrace it and cultivate it more. If decidedly the new, and now rather infectious, idea is bad, immoral, slanderous, unpleasent, or whatever it may be, then you may decide to try to starve it away. Shut down all parts of the brain that it has attached itself to until it is too weak to survive at all and melts away altogether. However, most find this easier said than done. Because such an idea will not go quietly. Once an idea has its roots it becomes an addiction. Pure and simple. Possibly for good, most often it just traps and ensnares your mind, until in desperation, you surrender to it.

Winter Morning

The best part of a winter morning is standing at the window and looking out at the frozen world. Standing close enough to the glass that the chill seeps through the panes and it rests like a film on your skin. Just enough chill to appritiate the warmth of walls, and the fireplace, and the warm tea in your hands.

When the sun has come up enough to burn yellow on the snow, and maybe melt the first thin layer of snow at the top so that it gleams. The icicles hang like glass: sturdy, strong, and beautiful. The old swingset with the red wood stands out in contrast to the white earth and the dullish bark of the trees. This moment is a glimpse.

When a single bird seems to remain, though the rest have gone, but he does not sing. He sits in the empty trees, jumping from on barren branch to another. Seemingly without purpose or care, yet contented. Then disrupted into flight by a squirrel whose own bushy tail swells with the breeze as he scampers down the limbs of the tree. and through the tree the silohette of a cat is visible. She watches the squirrel for a moment, though she makes no attempt to capture him and callously lowers her head. Slinking around the corner of a grey brick wall and dissapearing from view.

Now blades of grass peak out of the snow. Only a few are visible, yet more appear as the sun continues showering its relentless rays on the grass. Icicles start to melt and drop just outside the window. Their landing in the snow below is barely audible. But it signals the end. The end of a moment. The end of an experience.

Eden Park and the Dangerous Journey

the right side of the street

the great wall

when the sky goes green

(s)tumble down

this is where we live

bridge over frozen water

no sky = no limit