Angeles

6/16/08

And so my path curves westward. The dynamic shifting of the seasons in the eastern atmosphere is certainly in exile from this golden coast. Souls carefully crafted from the colonial air no longer rest in the cool comfort of the Appalachian cradle - often times bearing the honorary title of Guest is an invitation for wearing the clothes of a foreigner in one's very own country.

I am fulfilled here. Fulfilled in the sense that my spirit yearns for more in these surroundings. A puzzle incomplete, forever in search of the missing piece - not longing in sorrow for resolution but resting in joyous occupation with the knowledge that my chapter is far from finished. This place stinks of wonderous filth, reeking of the love affair between a fly and his mound of manurer - yet sturdy in the promise that fruit spawns from feces so long as you're not planting in the shade. My feet are well rested, they won't get you far out here.

The sun massages my skin moreso than usual. The notion that such dynamics exist within two coastal lines in this world is infinitely exciting - the very thought of it all fills my cells with color and light and makes me want to live twice as loud. There is time for that though, always time for that. It is never too late to pull down the curtains and let the particles flood the brain with the brilliant light of today.

My head is unsteady, my fingers are distant. My eyelids carry the weight of two thousand moments of consciousness, and gravity drives an easy bargain.