You get to a place where all you feel like doing is writing, and even the certainty of that can be vanquishing.
Times may breed discontent, and it is upon that i think on how manifest my reality is of my own accord. all things and places that i am – are on account of my intent and doing. i, at every moment, am the sum total of all that i have bred myself to be. this is console and solace, for it means that we are in evolution — to whatever point we may feel is at all time immanent…. the pastors of our own fields.
I ‘see’ and feel clutter about me, this is the cluttering of my mind with tasks and objects that i think to identify with – they could be no less identity than any else, for identity is only what we can leave behind for others to touch and become in those instants of their life. It is how others understand us, yet it is not who we ‘are’.
How then do we treat that which is so immediately about us? We find in our midst objects of affection and emotional store. things which we vest come part of ourselves in either through our own projection or via that of others. we retain these things around for keepsake of some nature. What is the nature of our becoming? this is the essence of our decisioning mechanism, and the fulcrum around which the rhythm of our life gathers pulsation.