If I want to feel like I am flying, all I have to do is stretch out my arms like wings.
If I want to write, all I have to do is open the file. Content already exists or arises spontaneously. Chaos is the beginning of order. Language wants to communicate. Words naturally assemble into thoughts. If I want to be happy, all I have to do is think I am. As I lay out the cards in solitaire I feel a smile emerging, tangibly moving from the back toward the front, coming into focus as I silently watch. I only have to open the door and I can go in. The forest awaits my walk in it.
The eager sincerity of the young deliveryman arouses my heart like the boy in the novel who barely dares to love. My feelings awake unbearably intense the writing is so good, the writer so purely open. All I have to do is let truth pour out before my time is up. There is no time here in the realm of the muses. Time is only the structure we live in. Here now I am, to live, play, love, work. All one.