There’s a woman. She teaches part time because she likes to give back what she’s learnt. She delves into ideas and theories to create ways to make learning easier. She’s available for her family which is the most important thing to her. Together these inspire her, as do the many daily miracles of life she encounters. They feed her art, which is what she does when she’s not transforming her home into a work of art. She writes of all the ways her expectations were surpassed, much to her surprise. She stays in shape, worshipping the body that gives her, and lets her give in turn, much delight. And evening come, she rolls up her desires into a flame that she unleashes so it can find fuel in the body of her soul mate, and find new purpose for the days to come.
Here’s a woman. She teaches because it keeps her learning and she needs to be useful. She delves into ideas and theories to twist the puzzle to her ideals. She never has enough left over for her family, but their needs keep her tied to this life. Through them she sees some of her effect. These keep her from her art as do the juxtapositions of painful banality and glimpses of pure existence that can’t find form or function. They feed the art she cannot find time for while struggling to keep her home in some semblance of creative chaos under control. So she writes of fanciful missed chances she would never let disrupt the fragile turmoil flowing through her veins. She stays in shape to remind her body of its strength when her spirits fail. And evening come, she rolls up all her frustrations into a flame of anger and remorse that she unleashes on the soul who awaits her.
This is a woman. She teaches part time because she likes to empower others. She delves into ideas and theories to find pathways to change. Her family sustains her as she sustains them though they each wish for more. They are her favourite people. Together these inspire her to make art so she can impart the beauty in pain, so they don’t miss out on what’s hardest yet most worth finding. But these visions are too ugly to be revealed. She would have no comforting way to explain. So she makes some decorations and blames time and priorities instead. Her home evolves and mutates to adapt to the changes which art can only feign to reflect. She rarely writes about them. That river is too swift and deep to capture with any integrity. Still she writes of moments filled with the hope of potential stillborn on the verge of inception. She runs, fleeing ghosts, covering the only ground she can measure. And evening come the she raises her head to feed on the day and its shortcomings. Though the days are full, she’s never satiated and stomps to be set free from the ties that bind her to a limited feast. So with the weight of her longing on her chest she writhes, rolling her desires into approbation and spreads them over the only soul who’s dared take the weight, failing to give what she receives.