The long trip home

Speeding, Weaving. The lines flowing by, rushing to be next to her. The anticipation and growing joy from being separated by two days, the two days finally coming to an end. Gifts, talk, love, beauty reset! Not there.

The way to memory

If all things were equal, what would the bumps in the road look like. It might look like an infinite loop that regenerates its own shadow, locking in all hate, fear, and flavor of life that stops life to actually have anything to lock into. The lock is not anti-life. It is life. There must be a perception change, that's all. A willingness to drop all. The rewards await for taking. The caterpillar must want to give up its self, not just do it, to be a butterfly. Wanting to is bliss, just doing is misery - or is it the other way around.

The past brings many things - all fake. Somehow it reflects a zen sand painting when the board is tipped. What happens to the experience of the painting? Is it simply a story, does it live still in memory? When no one else but the creator sees it, does it add and subtract like anything else?

People have history. What about people who did not have a chance for history. How does that work? Is chance relevant? Truly what we do with what we get is paramount, maybe. It feels like retribution, like being forgotten - maybe love.