So this is how the present speaks. Old ideas would fly off the shelves and pounce and jump into the mind. They were inscribed, written, into a notebook. It would make a sound and a smell, it would crinkle at times, sometimes realy quiet though, it would just hurt my hand. The pain in my hand is like the pain in my body. Not so nagging as it once could find it self to be, but so far makes the day , seem long. The day seems long because it is.
Old ideas would fly off the shelves, land on the right pen, on the messy lines in a black and white book. The bag changed over time, but the bag lives on in a new form.
The past speaks with the present in the deafening noise of the mind awake to long. The mind wants to make something happen every day, and it tries. It fails, always failing, always winning.
Sitting in a dusty area way, speaking of the perfection of the path to at attempt at perfection, perfection never lands in your hands, it is always just out of reach, keep the eye open to the world of perfectly imperfect imperfection.
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