I stare out at the world, the snow storms, the torment, through the windsheild of my own eyes. My priveledge allows me this contemplative time. This ART AS LIFE idea. I won’t make a dime on my words or my songs. I will gain gold more valuable and rare.
Through my windows and windshields I see everything. Is my moment warm, well-fed, quiet? Do I need to shake it up? Or do I want to bolt to the coast to get away from what I’m feeling?
Each passing moment is part of my story. Am I telling a good story? I weave along, but I can’t see the clear path ahead. The ending has come. The beginning begins.
My spaceship today, I look around, messy, warm, smelling of frankensense. I want to move things forward. Jump to lightspeed with a woman again.
Whoa.
I don’t have a copilot. Copilots tend to mess up the starmaps I had in mind. They get distracted. Choose other priorities. Miss the stars for the fear in themselves. I am here with two cats, plenty of coffee, and musical instruments. Sun sparkles outside. I am tired.
As the lucky bastard that I am, I will nap. I have no fear. No direction either. Heading? Here. Arrival? Now.
This is how I know I am alive.
