Life is made from a chosen stone the same way Michelangelo’s creations were made from chosen stones. We select our endeavors and then we begin to chisel away. At different points our process stares back incomplete, forming in amniotic experience, growing by push and pull and choice and belief.
When in full expression, our revelation stands with eyes full of awe, full to brim with our blood.
Our creation lives, standing firm on its own to speak, calling out with its own voice to be heard only by those that feel the heat from its flame, using a language interpreted ten-thousand ways. Breathing, starving, violent in love, violet in open vein, fiendish for a taste of experience, a voice saying, “there is no other way through life.” A soul is beginning to waken,
to wake and begin living; bursting open from desperate springtime blooming inside, and still, still a longing remains.
A duty, perhaps. A duty to acknowledge, to remember that this sun overhead is our sun,
sharing the same sky, sharing the same blues in broken hearts, sharing the same earth and food and shit and anger and air. Having chosen stones made from the same material
we all dare to engage with, if we choose, to do,