I ride the wave of infinite causal possibility. Opportunities peak their head over the edge of the fabric of reality before slipping back down into the world of probability. With so many people in such a small space come the dreams of many crowding out the voice of one. At the same time this morass of psychic noise acts as the muse for artists and singers, writers and poets, musicians and lovers. They flock to these warm epicentres of humanity lifeblood, like moths to the light, dancing around the bright flame, some burning and dying, hanging in dark corners like dead moths on the window sill, others gaining momentum to escape velocity, firing themselves at the moon in a bright arcing flame, reverse-shooting star as we sit and watch them burn, pondering our own existence, marking ourselves as failures for not escaping the flame, even more so for not dancing close enough to the light. Not everyone is meant to be a moth. Some are butterflies, angels, beetles, worker bees, queens and warriors. We are all beautiful and necessary, for human moths would not have an earth to run away from towards the moon, without us here to hold it still.
Step inside a poem…
…wrap it round yourself and wonder why it feels so good
to lose yourself in the essence of words,
even when they make no sense
– just spin on