It must be true that everything is illuminated over time.
A thought or a feeling, here and there. Running. One foot in front of the other and stumbling. Each at the exact same speed as the other. In step with time. Pacing. What is the meaning of it anyways? The feeling. The feeling of love, unlove. Gasping. Grasping on to something so tightly that it squeezes your breathe. And you are then, empty. I have wrestled with this. The way we rub against time. The quickness of it all. Like clockwork, the days shift. The nights grow colder and our hearts follow suit.
When I am blocked, I am useless. But time continues. Around, spinning. I, a loss. Pen to paper, but the pen is unsmooth. Bleeding fingers, typing, but the sound is too loud. And it melts inside of my ears. Until I cannot think. I cannot think straight. A piano somewhere in a distant room, books and the sound of pencils scraping along a long hallway. In the rough hands of a child. With a knack for words. And it is me. And it is then that I remember, this is a gift. And the presence is then, colorful. Meditation, my cure. My pen moves.