*NOTE: The writing below may lead people to believe that I am sad, haha. I want to make clear that I am not, and instead of writing this out of a very bad place know that it is the good place I am in that allows light to shed onto the misfortunate relational practices of humanity, myself included. It should be read more as a frustrated expression of a whole, and not as the secret depression of an individual. Wow, I hope that makes sense.
Anyways. A letter to Thomas, enjoy.*
*DOUBLE NOTE: I don't know a Thomas. Kind of the point, poetically speaking.*
*TRIPLE NOTE: Sorry about all the notes.*
Dear Thomas,
We hope this letter finds you well,
and we hope it is wellness that it leaves you with,
although we highly doubt it, considering the focus.
We have a dead tree outside.
We've never seen it, but we're told about its visual torment.
Today, however, we were hoping to speak with you about movement.
(We'll get back to the tree in a moment.)
There is a certain satisfaction
in choosing the rate at which we have and/or maintain movement.
(If you choose to have it at all. Actually.)
It must be a choice.
A choice we take pride in regardless of what we believe in
because the choice of standing still is intoxicating.
[It's better to feel in control of nothing then out of control of anything.
Not everything, mind you.
Any. One. Thing.]
We say goodbye to planting lilies,
to black coffee and underground symphonies
because those things grow, and growth is uncontrollable.
Growth in and of itself is both terrifyingly independent
while maintaining a fascinatingly fragile existence based on
the precise measurements surrounding it.
It's magic.
Black, most likely.
And we will have none of it.
Instead, we decide it is better to stay the same and not change
rather than change what has stayed the same
and have that same change stay.
Thought becomes riddle that turns into apathy,
which forms into regret and regret into an apple seed
that we plant but we don't have time to watch it change into an apple tree.
With fruit.
Whether or not we watch those trees bloom
from a seed to produce fruit
directly affects the seeds ability to grow and plant roots.
It will not do it if we do not see it.
Our attention is its sunlight.
And most trees whither in the darkness of our inner eyelids.
We do not watch.
The seed does not grow.
We stand, not moving, and take pride in our control.
We take pride from our souls hospital bed
and, having never tasted the bittersweet citrus of fruit, we die.
Alone, but satisfied.
Say hello to the wife for us, Thomas.
Best Wishes-
The Movement.
