This which compels us, this simple hand that heavily hurls us, fiercely forces us. It's not much more than our fears, worries or doubts. It lives, resides, moves closer than these words could ever explain. It's there with every inhale, every ache, every judgment. It doesn't condemn the things we call faults, or discriminate against turmoil. If anything it needs tumultuous souls, over-thinkers and pitiers. It feeds of our moments of magic, merriment and movement. It comes and goes as it pleases, leaving just enough space to return. This place which it once lived, it once cultivated, if left for the soul to search, scour, suffer only to find simple space. It moves through us, if we're lucky we get to write it down, sing it, become defined by it's wonders. It shakes us to a depth past our bones. It gives us just enough hope to continue searching, continue craving, continue longing. It comes with the magic of Nevada sunsets, of the high Sierra peaks, of the connection of souls' material, of sharing it with others who never knew, of melodic picking patterns, of long bike ride filled with aches, of deep, slow breath, of feeling so small that you somehow become big. This is meaning, this is gifted, this is god, this is magic, this is home, this is that.


Then it's gone. Leaving only a ramble of words on a computer screen meant for things easily understood.