In The Hills, At Night
Walking on tethered feet tip-toeing through the tulips we look left and right for any worm sign. And even when there is some to be had, there are none. Life is strange that way where all is provided for and yet… and yet we beckon to scarcity to come alight upon our doorstep. Where would we be without our own sense of deprivement, our own sense of lack to color our world. Perhaps it’s a karma thing coming back to haunt the haunted where the only thing that escapes it’s ugly claws is a way out to which we have become quite unaccustomed to - all on stated purpose of course with amendments of reasoning clearly attached. All two million of them.
It is the strings which binds us. Finding out that it’s our own string to begin with takes a little getting used to but when we finally capitulate it all unravels and the universe doesn’t come crashing down upon us, it opens it’s vast stores instead, taking it’s turn to beckon us in a direction we fully recognize as we have all been this way before.
It must be story time again.
Don’t believe a word of it.