A Verse

Zero instinct.

Blank slate.

Nature versus nature.

White out on the soul.

Countless past lives unknown.

A rich inner life muted by fate.

Love is ethereal.

Back from the dead

By merely being born,

The wanderer has found her home.

Years pass.

Seasons cycle.

Another spoke in the wheel

Will be complete before

She even knows it was spun.

To the future she climbs

A mountain of hope

To reach not enlightenment

But a refinement of spirit.

A prayer to an ancient goddess,

And burned coffee sipped

To the melody of harmony and chaos,

Dancing like sisters in

A field of memories.

On origin:

Inspiration is complex.

It is a battle of authenticity versus tribute to those who came before.

Originality is literally origin.

If you are inspired by others, what then becomes of origin?

What is originality but a method of intellectual honesty?

If you speak your mind, and not someone else's, by the laws of information entropy, you are likely to be unique.

But is unique original?

Is uniqueness a virtue of creative authenticity?

When your thoughts are your own, individuality of the prolific impulse of artistry is yours.

The key might be full assimilation of memory.

Incorporate everything you know into improvisational writing without drawing directly from any source.

And then, maybe, you will have aspired to fulfill the muses.

Maybe, you will speak your truth—and no one else's.

Another discovery for note about my first book title:

My first book is called: Beyond Description. The etymology of the prefix trans is beyond. While I didn't make this direct connection until now, I'm embracing it as an intended meaning of Beyond Description.

A Verse

Turmoil inspires me to grow.

Just as a plant bends towards the light.

Peacefulness is desired,

And attained for the moment.

I feel good.

Today was another long day.

Fortuitous.

I hope tomorrow goes just as well,

But with less introspection.