Not in another place but this place…not for another hour, but this hour.
1 – 8 // this place, this hour i am the sun-drenched morning of guilt and freedom, passion and apathy, strength and stillness. i am rogue energy, trapped in the frantic wings of a thrush. i am palpable envy when i turn my gaze outward; i cannot see beyond it. i am looking for messages in your words when i cannot speak my own. i am distraction, and the subtraction, of the elements that cultivate the whole. the pathways and waterways, my ragged breath, a body bathed in sweat, it held it all and carried me home.