Indulgence

I feel so Indulgent. Self congratulating my every crawl-step, out-of-step with life as we know it. Every pretty phrase becomes a novel, every pretty face a muse. When will I hang this ego at the door and start the work? I will never be a slave to anyone but myself. I need only become my own master.

Slow

This is the year of Slow. Where I heal and grow. Slow. Life moves too fast sometimes for one to truly grasp what’s it’s on about. So let’s ease up on the pedal a bit. Breathe, relax. Brake. I want to unwind this mortal coil and examine the fiber. Am I made of steel or string?