Being sent out while
exhausted both physically and mentally leads to dark roads while writing. The
duck pond became not a place of rest but a place of rot and decay, a grim
reminder of mortality.
I would rather not
tackle such topics, of blood to soft loam to stone. I would rather not speak of
creation brought to ruin. I would rather not entertain death.
Yet the particles
underneath my feet, the damp smell in the air from the rain left that in my
mind. Shreds of plant and refuse giving way to my weight, powerless under
entropy yet fundamental in the foundation of new growth.
Wow I am tired right
now.
I am clear in growth
surrounded by the dead, far from the waxing crescent of my life far in the
future, the short duration of life present in co-existing body and soul. But I
seek out to continue in soul in the works I create and the impact I have.
I will be more than
debris.
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