The Second Act

Who isn’t killing to create? Ourselves, others, the value – real or perceived, the cause – real or imaginary. All that ever exists, all matter, is here. Now.

To create, we need the raw material. It needs to be broken or ready to be molded. Soft but durable. A comfortable saddle.

Pony up!

Man up!

Woman up. Keep going. Harder. Faster. Higher. More. More but this time be less. Full but not filled. I can’t take another bite of this horse meat buffet. Gnashed by the machine, it’s all recycled verbiage and hate and insecurities and platitudes and attempts at making something for us to stop and stare.

Wide eyed. Wondrous, boisterous freshness. New. To me. To you.

But all that ever was and will be, is.

So they say.