Life is an internal condition, meaning that you feel all there is, the things one sees and feels, hears, experiences. You feel it all and quite roughly. It’s about all your nerves can take.
Walking past a house you feel things acutely within. A rebound of light coming from you and back at you.
So you get tired of those people who make a habit of living in the “real world.”
No can or really should like an artist.
So, when Spring comes you really feel in every cell and pore on your body. Sweet and sad. Might it be your last, or anyone else’s.
And the pollen brings pain to you, in your head, dulling it, too much to take in. Every tree, front and center, calling attention.
Chagrin on your old mug.
When there are many frustrations it is better to take a walk rather than drive. Take in each tree, each flowering. Each a soldier priest to bring you, to your doorstep, reality.
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