The Rider Approaches

The question is of motivation and stamina. Motivation – will the intention to open a tiny dialogue with friends and passersby win the internal battle against the desire to sit around, have another cup of coffee, smoke a ciggy, hop hyperlinks and the various tubes, play hearts, call an old friend, go out for drinks, dig into the pile of magazines, track down a favorite Dylan bootleg and situate myself appropriately for an extended session. Stamina – if my little frogger makes it across the road, will there be the will to cross the river or will I rest indefinitely in that calm center. Or get hit by a truck. If I survive the trucks, do I brave the gators?

 

A warm bed, a winter day, Thoughts wander. Oh, that magic feeling.

 

            I had a vision when the night was late:

            A youth came riding towards the palace gate.

 

Tennyson or Dylan? Whatever and regardless, the rider still approaches, the wind still begins its howl. In the tempest, then, this, a first blog entry. Thoughts blowin’ in the wind like dead trees, the illusion of chaos, the reality of strong hands pushing and guiding. Ghosts everywhere.

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