Decisions, decisions.

As a <insert whichever profession of mine seems most authoritative and romantic to you at this time>, I often ponder how to get reality, as-it-is, into words.

Not an image. Even AI can do that; but reality, for example..

You make a decision and you decide to go RIGHT. And the you that went left goes LEFT, focused on their own reality while YOU are focused in this reality1.

This focus seems like a split thing; we are all over but more often than not here, wherever we're going.

How long do you take to DECIDE to go right? Right there you spill energy into LEFT. Lots of energy. But in "How Long" I don't just mean time. Oh fuck, here is where language starts to break down and our writing needs to be poetry-grade to even consider thinking about contemplating working in this space. In other words, falls off a cliff. Almost. <insert cliff-hanger>

So you striding boldly working in <insert gestalt; religion, science, signs, what-have-you> ends up more powerful, so more boldly into RIGHT realm than LEFT, than had you taken a <while|time|moment|eon|epoch|cheese> to DECIDE.

The point is important. As in the point in space-time you are deciding in(on|for). FUCK!

Have you ever seen, "The One"? Jet Li film. What about Dante's "Inferno"? That was a book. Or Dickens? There almost couldn't be enough language out there we could carve shapes into for our result. Dramatization. Check. "Re-Imagining". Yup. Still nothing.

Language won't cut it. That's why proper Gurus would much rather work you up into a lather than have a Q&A. Some things can only be felt. Or known.

So what's-the-fukin-point-in-poetry, you might ask. Well, gimme your right arm. Watch me pour nasty alkaline powder on that forelimb. Mmmm. Sore, right?

No, you don't get the vinegar. You can squirm and scream and pay-the-fuck attention, instead.

Eventually; after I help you to your cave or whatever, I pour on the vinegar and the searing pain subsides (to be replaced by a the slightly lesser pain of burn injury; which will pass). This is how poetry work(s). I will now literally throw in the first thing that comes into my head as an example of (my) "poetry":

I sit browsing the web, getting bored-er.
Thinking, "How is this helping? Me. My kids?
They deserve better". I look over my shoulder.

There she is. My beautiful bike. Built
from nothing. Let's do this. I take off.
In minutes I hit the forest. 20m later

The forest hits me. Skip To 7am. A school morning. Questions
that didn't happen: Have you had your breakfast? Is your
uniform ready? That did: Has dad slept in?

Okay, a simple thing I will not edit in the future, on principle. Tip: If you didn't get it first time you read it, EXCELLENT! More power to you, literally.

And there I go again, skipping into infinity, as we see it2. "A Thousand", they would have said, not so long ago.

Keep up.

;o)