I’ve heard rumors that spring is on the way.
This nation shudders under her burgeoning debts, and a bold man stands atop the ruin and tries to reign it all in. I stand hang-dog in front of a dim mirror and survey yesterday’s failures here, in amuirin-world. I wonder, -why?
Why does today hafta be executed like yesterday? Why do I hafta be a weak person? Why don’t I make choices and stick to them? Why don’t I change stuff with the capacity for thoughtful intent granted to the hairless great ape?
Potential is a burden in my hands. I get right to the edge of something, stare at the drop off. The water is warm down below. The fall isn’t long. The journey beyond that point, well.. it’s bound to be interesting.
Why cling to this glacial cliff and watch the world go by?
A deep down fear of orcas? (I’m going with the polar theme, in case I hafta utilize the oh so convenient global warming metaphor later on)
Polar Bears are dying, and I’m writing tripe! Eek!
Go! Go on! Get ‘er done.