Bacon, walnuts and a cookie, the cars drive past and Sun shines through my window giving life. A crow speaks in low tones and my cigarette a comfort for reality. This is hardly a jail cell and I am no criminal, though sufferings happen even in secret. The backtracking ills me in fear that I will be judged by my existence gone. Its amazing how thoughts can control us.
I have luxury of time. With no pressure you would assume that art could exist naturally. It just isn’t so. It is as if you have to force yourself to create. There seems to be some force trying to block creation. A dark mass angry at any description. The soul want desperately to continue, to evolve, though the shadows prevent this. With no choices able to ensure a golden throne you are left with one accurate medicine, meditation.