A Form

It's been an inordinately long amound of time since I wrote much of anything at all. Back in school - high school, college, what have you - I used to write all sorts of things. I suppose I never really thought much of the endless hours of wasted time I had on my hands, obligated to sit at a desk with pen readily in hand. I suppose I never thought much of the infuriatingly narrow-minded professors who spurned on creativity, despite their best efforts to drown it out. I suppose I never considered that I used to be a writer...

Time plays an ugly trick on us. It can't truely be said it was only our devistating education system that made my muse spread wing. It was the innane bordum of hours on end with nothing else to do. When given a blank canvas, my soul was desperate to color it. I suppose the problem now is how "busy" I've had to become. Always something to do - it's the American way, isn't it? Always busy, always occupied, always multi-tasking. Never a moment to break the pattern.

But, there is an effort being made to change all of that, or at least to backlash against it. It may appear to be yet another schedule, more rigorous than calling every hour not clocked into work "downtime". In reality, it is just a reminder. To allow the muse to spread wing even in this cramped up space. To take the time, here and there, to breathe and remember that this shallow shell with its expration stamp is not the only thing we add up to. To be a living machine, instead of a dead one.

That means creating again. Which means inkshedding again. For a while, I felt it was useless, a waste of time, energy, paper, thought. But, I am beginning to realize this shedding of ideas, of the soul's chaff, of ink is the best way to get at whatever creature it is has hidden under all that ugly mundanity.

This is the best way to shed the illusion of life. To get back to the intangible things that we are. The best way to see --

I am not a barista or bariste who serves you at your whim. I am not a server or a worker or a woman. I am not a human or a mammal or flesh and blood. I am, but I am not.

These things you see are mere manifestations of this self that you are hoping to glimpse. I am not these forms.

I am ink and pen and paper and thought and dust. I am a winged thing that floats among nothing, black as space and night. I am the blackbird singing, the butterfly wings fluttering, the moon in the night shining. I am all of creation that gives breath to life and ease to the heat of day. And all life and all heat is a part, a portion of this form.

For I am spirit, and I will go where I will. For we are all wind, and we will blow where we will.