[Morning Freewrite]

I sit here thinking about things without thinking about them.  It is morning.  The first breath I take is upon my lips, still fresh.  Can I remember it?  Not quite but I can remember that I remembered it....

To wake and immediately write.  It is a thing that is beautiful.  It is a thing that is moving.  It is a thing that urges us to play the keyboard like an instrument.  We feel the keys dance beneath our fingers as we rock into the glow and back out.  Like Tori playing her piano we feel the music flow right from beneath the keys' strokes'.

I find that I am indecisive about what I wish to write.  On the one hand the possibility of writing about things that have happened occurs to me.  On the other, writing about thoughts has a measure of want.  I want to write about both and neither.  To write about thoughts is empty.  To write about events is empty.  Only the combination breathes true with life. The life of the mind and the life of the hedonist are equally devoid of meaning.  But together they can be more than the sum of their parts.  Why is this?  What specialness comes from being able to think as well as act?  To be able to act as well as think?  One is able to experience designed things.  To be able to analyze and then live out our analysis.  One can create situations and then live them to see how they really feel.  And one can live a situation and analyze it to find what made it function the way it did.

Thought and experience.  Learn and feel.

I want to look upon the same hills and upon different hills and see what makes them the same.  I want to look upon things that make no sense and see the purpose behind them.  I want to look upon things that everybody knows are right and see the hidden flaws.  I want to be a puzzle master able to invent puzzles and deduce the answers of puzzles.

Thoreau.  Dillard.  Whitman.  All are writers who speak of nature.  But Whitman spoke of other writers.  Writers who spoke of nature with more passion and more feeling.  They did not analyze as Thoreau did - handing us pieces that were once removed from living.  They attempted to hand us damp, moist, dark earth fresh from the land.

Why am I here?  Not on this Earth, but in this house.  Why am I thinking I should stay here?  It is to write?  It is to find myself?  It is to journey beyond where I have gone physicaly?  I am a journeyer.  A Seeker.  But not yet a seer.  I have not yet found my vision.  I have not yet found a specialness that can support me.  I have found a sense of self within, but it is only the roughest, tenuous taste.  There is nothing powerful about it - only right.

I search for the feeling that will overpower.  Include.  Make me feel whole.  I search for the vision which will guide me through life.  I search for the vision that will serve as my mentor, my protector, my sword, my Obi-Wan.  I search for guidance from a higher plane.

[End Morning Freewrite]