Behind the Veil: Summer's End

It has always been challenging to motivate myself with no external lines of defense to hold off the lines of offense. I have no idea what I am talking about right now. My mind is one crazy (and by "crazy," I mean fascinatingly strange and oddly beautiful) maze. I think in symbols, visions, energies. And even when I attempt to form human-sounding phrases, I end up someplace far away from this planet.

I will attempt, though, since I believe one day somebody may be reading my scribbles and find them surprisingly clear and useful. Yes, let's come back to the external motivation: those nagging smiling faces that keep repeating, "we believe in you, we want to hear what you have to say, we need your scribbles." And how can I forget about, "I cried when I heard your song. Those were the tears of joy?"

So what can one do when smiling faces fade as memories, when the only place where they remain is on old photographs or footprints in the sand that may not even be real?

The only motivation remaining is the path itself, gleaming - flickering as a weathered garland. It feels steady under my feet, purposeful, strong like a mountain river. Yet, the path is impersonal. It is a bow in my hands, prompting me to shoot an arrow, asking me to hit that target on that distant tree in that gloomy forest.

And so I take a step after step. I let the stream carry me. I allow it to help me find my wings, so one day there may be a smiling face, many smiling faces, many hearts showered by the love I share in my strange words, images, sounds, and dreams.