Not the actual cover, just a silly sketch that I decided to play with. I’m not sure which style I want to use for this project, but I will figure it out very soon.
Saying your next move aloud is not the same as walking across the board.
Wherever the dreamer fixes the eyes
in the darkness or the light of will
Fortune follows fortunes’s disguise
granting name to face when ever still.
So, with this must the hopeless go
where hope is will or nature’s crutch
and bring light to seed, that such a dream might grow
with fortune the fingers of the will’s softest touch.
Often, we want to be who we were before we thought we knew who we wanted to be.
There is a stillness that comes with death, twin to that sort of perpetual unrest, which lives in those who are left bereft of all it takes to be content. Despite what seems to be the best attempt at introducing the will to a manner of dress which leads a life as if correct, we chase the light that projects the death where birth meets end and end stops breath. When we live in the span of a moment’s depth.
I need to shut my think hole sometimes.
With each new mark we are drawn as the day
Carving light out of space and space out of night
All while fingers of fortune form figures in clay
As love lights shape’s face, and face shapes love’s light
Trading blank slate for primary palette, I imagine every being as a portrait, and every action as a brush stroke. The question for most seems to be whether or not we hold the brush. To paint or to be painted, that is the question.
Of course, the answer is always both, and in the end our canvas will be an infinitely small blip of color, aligned with others, revealing a picture far too beautiful for a lifetime’s worth of praise or speculation. So just paint what you love and love what you paint.
Every thought is a big bang,shaping infinite possibilities through a variety of decisions that we naturally select. It’s deliberate evolution.
We’re the lightening, time’s the bottle.
These days I arrange my stage with blood-shot eyes on both sides of the cage. I refuse to be blinded by what you call fate, can’t you see that our minds shape the way the game’s played? We’re the pieces and the player, opposition, and the board, when everybody’s winning we shouldn’t have to keep score.
I’ve spent the last few years attempting to refine my dictionary; it’s a work in progress, like a perpetual motion machine dancing to the tune of understanding the combination of distributed causality, heredity, and conditioned consciousness posing as free will, beside a narcoleptic opposition.
It’s funny how many of us seem to have an optimistically narcoleptic consciousness. I’m not sure which people are more afraid of, waking life or the dream. I’ve enjoyed vacationing, but I think it is time to go home.
I feel like an explosion; like I’m watching myself from the third row in, growing, getting as close as possible to knowing the few things worth showing, and it is all a part of me, and you.
Of all the craft stores, on all the planets, in all the universes, she walked into mine.