going to just hover my fingers above the keyboard and see what blurts out.
winds blew April into us and a synapse somewhere burped me a message so simple i'd of course overlooked it. hide in plain sight. blossoms evolved to release and capture pollen in those March winds, to be watered by those April showers. i am one of the many of this town that venture into gusty nights. it is a favourite escape. see the world pulled by an edge of force (i repeat myself, surely, but the force enacted on an object in the wind is more of a suck than a blow. think of the 'lift' of an aircraft's wings as it creates its own wind here.) perhaps the stormchasers who roam out to intercept the sensory concert these nights generate are there for the pollination of blown ideas. to receive the ideal mistrals of others, and perhaps let go of a few of their own.
i am confused by myself. there's some sort of problem of the heart that occurs everytime i try to play the sheet music i burnt so many candles to scribe. this is a stupid metaphor, but also apt: i can think it, just not do it. i'm not sure what is at fault here. a fear, a very basic fear, one i learned before i learned that i learned. i'm not sure what is holding me in this spot... i am afraid of finishing anything, and it's affecting my entire life. over. and over. i defer, i procrastinate, i moan, i mither... and i feel sadness, as i know i could be wonderful at life. that's all i can say, as i don't want to participate in its reification any further.