- Fine Art
There were times when this was all new to us. We gathered in small enclaves and talked in awed, slightly hushed voices about this mysterious force which seemed to drive us and ignited our senses, showing itself through magical synchronicities, always somewhere on the edge of our dreams, creeping into this world. We all had names and played characters. There was a cafe where we stood, lingering afterwards, drinking coffee and certain of the future and our own pending enlightenments. There were studios where we spent late wine soaked nights in the throes of creativity, bowled over by the sublimity of the mystery. There were times when the roads stretched in every direction and not one had been chosen. Instead, they all seemed wide open.
There were people. The boy with the drum, always on his back. Sometimes, in that old tattered army bag, with three or four tattered hardcover I Ching books, he always had ac couple of rocks. Rocks. Small boulders. Another friend, excitedly talking about modes of sustainable building when it was a new thing, but so ancient. There was that girl, i will never forget the eyes and the way they looked at me. The way we giggled at night while stoned. There was the barrista behind the counter, the ever revolving door, the place in back where we would sit and smoke. The art on the walls that was sometimes mine, but the table I called my office.
There were parties. There were rivers to swim in naked while lying in the sun. There were futures which had not yet been decided and the sheer beauty of the sunset would knock me off my feet and I would be content to just roll with it, rather than trying to make anything of it. What can I learn from youth?
Is there a point when the seed is no longer a sapling, the tree it becomes no longer bends? Am I just one tree or an orchard? Am I one lifetime or many? How often does this life regenerate? What is that sense of awe, that sense of diminutivity? What is that sense of possibilities? And what takes it away?
The world has changed since then. It seems to’ve gotten smaller or maybe I got bigger. It’s problems are grander or maybe the solutions aren’t so easily attained. Responsibilities now tend to gather forces around the periphery of my vision, always making certain I can still see them. Roots appear at the tips of my toes and sink themselves in, glad at last to have found fertile soil while my wings want to stretch, to fly. I find myself always seeking happy mediums. The middle path.
After all, how long can we go and go and go, burning like the sun, like a just born star?
This path I am on is far less defined than it makes itself out to be. And the world is far more mutable than it appears to be. The greatest trick our minds ever pulled on us is making us think that we cannot change them, and that by changing them our reality will not also change.
Master of your destiny. Nothing has changed, only the variables. And even those are more similar than we might realize. The only thing that changes as we get older is our perspective.
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