The golden hours of the morning met my eyes with favor.

Cherished and tender, the Sun kissed her skin in a swath of freckled light.  

I meet her gaze and she fades like waning of my magic.

In her absence, I stumble from then to now, tethered along by the wish of her reality.

She is ethereal, her between moments, unmoored by convention.

She is a freedom, I do no know.

She whispers her truths, words which wage war with profound ambition.

Dusk comes and I succumb, it is time.

Behold the smooth transition of brushstrokes and bristles to the field of marigolds.
The sweet friction brought by divine hands, is the depth you were searching for.

And as the storm rolls in, high on the technicolor clouds, you take a moment to catch your breathe.
Next thing you know the rainbow wildfire blooms from the painted raindrops, setting the flowers ablaze.

It is a world created of mind made matter, and if you cannot see the parallels, then you lack the imagination!

Any fiction can carve its way into reality, that is the truth of all worlds.

That is the key, forge your ambitions and blow the doors wide open.

I’ve stood coast to coast, listening to whistling, winding songs of the ocean waves.

I’ve lost myself in the sound and stories across the American highway.

Growth is not linear. A new place doesn’t make a new person. You take your baggage. You take all of the miserable excuses. You take time.

I’m not a sojourner. I’m not a traveler. I’m not some whimsical man.

Though, I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it all. Enjoying it through the gritted teeth of resentment.

Reality is what you make of it. The when and where can matter, but it’s not all there is.

Sometimes we just need the roots to settle.
Sometimes we just need to let life bloom.

So I’ll take a drink, praise the sun, and live.

Life has always been about the decaying permutation of possibility.

When you are young, the infinite paths sing with endless potentials.

These branches are primed with the indifferent hands of time.

Choice still exist, as it always has, yet the narrowing is haunting.

It is that inevitability is that hangs around in ominous fog.

Approaching that finality is a journey of bittersweet grace.

Stone slabs descended down,
forming a staircase straight to hell.

A sea of screaming miasma suffocated
either side of the winding venture.

The light of the world above no longer
registered as darkness swallowed this place.

It seemed that whether forward or back,
this road was infinite.

Finally, after endless time, the monument
of this suffering came into view.

The blackest Obsidian rose beyond
comprehension and without feature.

Voices wailed and tension bloomed
in ominous agony.

And as it called out, a liquid wave of
familiarity poured in and around me.

The door, once unmarked, split down the seam
as I came within the final stretch.

Understanding drowned my mind,
as I pressed my palm against its surface.

Instantly, with a deafening boom,
it swung open on ethereal hinges.

Walking through, in bewildering clarity,
what was one became two.

Books are fuel to the imagination.

Works of fiction pour into my mind,
hours at a time.

I feel the power rise,
as I climb through expositions.

Looking down,
I see the world in the palm of my hand.

Looking up,
I see my face amongst the clouds.

On this high I craft my own words,
some spoken and others in ink.

And as I fall,
I ponder the time until my return.