The Winter And The Clear-Eyed Boy

The winter, the clear-eyed boy feels more confident in his abilities, within the human trenches of diversity. How to live, as if there could be a right way, potentially all roads could be the wrong one, or limitless in ones effort. Pouring-out some personal account , just one more practice in the art of epigraph, if not a tombstone . Like all Tombstones, that are made to last, in the end the earth will reclaim.

Human experience, the accounts add up, as the parts of a conversation, a generated commentary, messy, frustrated and often awkward attempt at glory. Building a mountain, one pebble at a time, at the end an old man seats on top of it and looks out at his own end, a refection on the present moment, as all moments in time. The ant hill and microcosm of the mountain tops, at the top of the ant hill the Ant is accretive, the man only forgotten and changed, evolved as his life has taken different turns.

The great landslide, only a pebble falling, or the sky opens and the raindrops come in accumulative songs, prolific productions.

Cold nights, are accumulative, if not prolific in perspective, a landslide of cold, a foundational metaphor of connectivity resources. The weather is recounting the experiences, sustenance and ritual, struggle mirrored in geographical shared sense of community of mind. The pebbles, only ideas, fragments spilled over, histories illustrated at a coffeeshop, the self-portrait depicted by free will.

The bitter battle, a life always too short, and fought with small and uncertain successes, life is shamefully limited, in a dramatically insulting way so often. Ant-hills and Mountain tops, Ants or Humans dependent on the perspective, a point of view and order.

Cold nights or antediluvian survival, a study in rocking life imparted by tides of great Gods, that drop from the sky, transparent, you rise your head for the event, and plunge back into the ensuing landslides.