What's the point? The world's just sprawled out, sitting, waiting. Waiting for what? What the heck are we waiting for. Tulips were always so soft, always had a growing season. You plant it, you water it, you nurture it, it grows. That's just how you breathe, in and out, raspy and gentle. I mean a fork's reflection in a pane of glass looks just like the fork, except somehow in your mind, it looks better. Graphite pencils with some charcoal can imitate that. The artistic rendering always makes people forget the awe inspiring beauty of the actual thing. A tree is just a tree until you actually think about its being a tree. Then again it's good to think about the artistic beauty too, cause then you're thinking about how beautiful the thing could become, in the future. Along the lines of when you look at a piece of scrapmetal and imagine a vehicle, look at a seed and see a tree. I kind of like the seed though, like it's beauty, the beauty of it, and the beauty contained in it. The beauty of what it could be is more overwhelming than what it would be if I let it grow. Switching over feels like swithching from one dream to another. You're so wrapped up and warm in one, then something snatches you. You're empty inside for the milisecond the journey takes, and then wrapped in something new. It's equally warm, but different somehow, and you have just enough time to adjust before you're snatched away again. You wake up every now and then, look around you, and wish you were back there. It's just around the corner, so you take the last few steps and reenter that world of shifting half-dreams.
Paper always had such a fine sheen to it, such a nice little lamination. Untouchable, like marigolds in their golden heavenly glory that could never really be touched. Even stamped into the ground by feet and machines it seemed to stand tall, untouched by the likes of anyone, least of all the things that tried to crush it. Little burst of delight are like marigold's to, they're frequent, but treasured like the gold they are. Each burst of pleasure and each marigold have a certain little tinge to them that makes them unique, and keeps us alive. Air conditioning filters are gray and fluffy with brown cardboard edges. They're beautiful, mysteriouse, hardly spoken of. Yet they are discarded as something common, something not worthy to dwell on. They have a kind of rapture to them if you look at them at all. Old ones that have worked and aged and now stand at the edge of their usefullness and life at the same time. Shut away in dark places for none to see until they have outlived their usefullness and are left to die. A glimpse of light when born, searing and flourescent, and one last glimpse when dying, gentle and forgiving on spent wires and dust. Modern day slaves, depended on for comfort and making aliving, but treated like trash till their dying day. MAybe one day the air conditioning filters will be freed.