Well well, I can't seem to speak, can't seem to write, yet I have so much stored up in the gut, that anything but release would be exceeding the capacity of swallowing thoughts and eating the aims of my heart in writ. Here are several choices I'm given: To write this paper out of spite tonight; to think about the grace that empowers the Kingdom to move forward, even in the midst of impossibilities that are time after time documented; do a combination of both and endure a self that dances and squats within seconds in intervals, overtaken by nervous energy.
I just want to sing of the sorrow of the world, the joy within the sorrow, and the wits of my gut... however they may be in this day. Perhaps sense is something that I cannot hold hands with, yet what should I care? I just see a 4 way chess board and reclaim to myself, what a wonderful world... One that allows us to follow the rules of the game, or expand.
Nothing but praises, nothing but the writs of my wit. I know not why there is refraction and retraction in my nervous system, but I do know that they are within my fleece sweater. How shall I let you out, set you free?
I just want to sing of the sorrow of the world, the joy within the sorrow, and the wits of my gut... however they may be in this day. Perhaps sense is something that I cannot hold hands with, yet what should I care? I just see a 4 way chess board and reclaim to myself, what a wonderful world... One that allows us to follow the rules of the game, or expand.
Nothing but praises, nothing but the writs of my wit. I know not why there is refraction and retraction in my nervous system, but I do know that they are within my fleece sweater. How shall I let you out, set you free?
