Before a line appears it is just dust.
Smaller and smaller particles heading aimlessly in circles, clashing and avoiding and combining until somewhere, some of it settles.
And then, there’s a choice.
A moment of decisive infinity where we look ahead and predict what we cannot ever see and hope we are the oracle of our own voices.
It’s a rare thing.
To be aware.
I don’t think we ever really are, even at our most receptive we are coloured and shaped by things we can’t control or expect.
We are sculpted by the chisel of life and formed in the fire of death. A bleeding wound that we try always to suppress, with conscience, morality, ethics and all the other lies of self.
It isn’t easy been you when all you are is constructed from pieces of another.
There isn’t a pure form, a precise fulcrum for your existence.
We hang from the threads of the people we replace and those we nurture.
And whatever we choose to embrace and joyously follow,
Wherever we plant ourselves and lay our tendrils deep,
Whichever road we try and follow,
We should accept it as it is.
Because we can’t control change,
And who we are is never set,
And as solid as you feel,
As right you stand
we all end up as dust.