Periods of tranquility are seldom prolific of creative achievement. Mankind has to be stirred up.
I feel as if I have been gathered by the wind, cradled and uplifted. A new bird from the nest. My eyes wide as I feel compelled to flutter my feathers against the currents. Where will it take me next? Where will I land?
If your an artist, you enjoy the chaotic flight. The mystery of movement, the questions without answers. Its an adrenal rush of color, flight, descent and uprising.
Coax me forward with whispers of words that are like fingers grasping the leash of my insecurities. That quicksand of stagnant death.
I will not sleep as it calls to me. I will not sink into its gray death.
Today, I fly.
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