Passion breeds. Listen to the crickets, walk in the cornfield, alone. Smell the stalks and the earth below your feet, come home and relish in the thought of doing it again. Without passion we are lost and wandering among smiles that have never counted for anything other than self.
I saw that before seeing it and now it’s as if I didn’t. The song of the dysfunctional moaning happens. As feet move, over screaming cement. A disdain foams just under thought, asking for more and more; move over and feed this original sin. A seedling isn’t just a thing happened, again, as the fearing behemoths protest- It’s all been done before.
He walked farther into the Forrest with his son. He wanted to tell of the tree with the face. He could’t find it. As they searched he told the boy of how the tree must have uprooted itself and moved on because it was alive enough to have a face and speak and could certainly move about the woods as it pleased. The boy listened and took notice of the tone his mother had warned of. It took on a note of story telling and mistrust grew from each story. His father crossed a brook then hurried up a slight ravine and happened upon an eleven. See son, these two fallen branches make an eleven and they are showing us the way to the tree face. These were put here as a marker for you and I. There’s no way for them to simply be. They are for us, his father said with great seriousness. His son looked at the Forrest floor wearing a look if sadness. What’s wrong, his father asked. The boy replied, do you ever want to tell and not describe? What do you mean, his father pressed. That’s maybe not an eleven put here for us, the boy replied. No? He looked at his son with an irritable glance. Then what is it? His son answered, two sticks not laying down.
If there was no door to see through and nothing to watch then we’d be able to. The floor had eyes where eyes shouldn’t be. The drawer didn’t pull far enough and be able to had nothing to do with it.