The ebb and flow, bobbing in the sea of creating.  There are things I have desired to try but they were elusive.  Does that make sense?  It's there, on the tip of your tongue, buried beneath piles of books and dust-bunnies.  Certain songs are often the missing ingredient to turning that messy pile of flour into cake.  You want to eat it alone licking your fingers slowly.  There are so many places inspiration hides.  If you look, you can't find it.  If you sit quietly, it will find you. 

   The wind in the trees does this orgasmic thing to light.  If you are in the right place at the right time you can get lost in its power.  Dappled golden shapes; undulating quivers.  The environment becomes perfect when all these things combine, fight it though we may, like a baby falling asleep in your arms, her very weight uncomfortable.  She cannot find the spot she likes.  She does not yet know her own body; its foreign motions repelling against gravity, the earthen form in which she now resides.

   The intangible speck of TIME can be the hardest part to grab; it is not a thing, yet holds onto us so tightly.  Jiddu Krishnamurti said, "The only freedom, is freedom from the known.".  In the twisting inside of oneself are all these knots, often it feels that we are tightening them beyond looseness.  The tension of the self is stronger than roots exploding through concrete.  I go down one glowing wormhole of blues and purples only to find a dead end.  It seems as if I have spent a century clawing at the wall until my fingernails have become bloody beautiful.