A boy stood in the middle of the woodland. Picking ticks from his legs, arms, and even his neck. He wished he had brought a lint roller, or alcohol to light his body with. The ticks mounted a heavy advance. He’d counted over fifty. And that was only the ticks he could see. The boy started to walk, then run, toward a pond. He sprinted downhill, the sun, blazing through the canopy of tree tops, started to dizzy him; his shadow caused too much chaos. Landing hard on the ground and letting go a grunt, which spurted spittle, the boy asked the nearby pond, ‘Is this happening?’ The pond was soundly sitting and awaiting the boys arrival. And finally the pond did respond, ‘Why are you here?’
We were walking and it was very cold. You told me ‘It’s too much and we need not walk further.’ I said ‘If we stop we’ll freeze and die’. You were always the one to know. What did you know this time? Then, I asked, ‘If my footprints were fading, along the path where we were to be saved, would you let us in?’ To which you replied ‘ I’d ask you to remember, please, what lead you to the place you now stood.’ -M. Taggart
We were walking along stone steps. Slowly, they were layered with ice. It was awkward because I was told you weren’t real. We passed a large tree, while walking on these steps. This tree had a face. The tree decided to talk and asked us this, “When I’m gone will you know, what you think you know?” We weren’t sure how to answer because we’d never seen a tree with a face that could speak. We did our best by replying, “I’ll know what I can.” The face in the tree became upset- it said “Then you’ve already forgotten.” -M Taggart
So what about ‘this’ causes pause? Is the moment too short? Too dark? Is it difficult watching the nothing pass you by? Collecting your things, we watched. It’s challenging to witness, you miss handling, you. I ask not for permission- I see what is. We couldn’t believe you missed your creation. It’s not so hard, really. It’s here, in front of us all. Ask, ‘Why can’t I see what’s so realistic to me?’
It was not smoke rising from the field, as you thought; it was fog fading- settling down. -M. Taggart.
When the flame, in which you produced is close, keep this in mind. The smoke rolls, near your face, your lips, you have a moment when you realize. It’s something you may do. Whatever comes of it, remember, don’t swallow your spit. -M. Taggart.
People bore me. Small brains. No memory. Then I see a frog. It jumps because I step near it. It jumps again because it wants to get to the water in front of it. Then, the frog asked me what I was doing. That was odd. Normally, people don’t ask what I’m doing, let alone a frog. I said, “I was just being me.” The frog told me, “that’s enough of a challenge,” and continued on to the water. – M. Taggart.