Why so quick? Well, am I? It depends how you look at it I guess. All things feel like they are moving fast, I may not even be able to tell when something is at rest. Ride at the leading edge, or I'm bound to be outrun. In-motion is a clever and elusive hiding place, there I shouldn't be drawn by the finality of stillness – still-in-motion, I felt, and my head lost up in the clouds. If I'm fast enough, I may well be invisible. And at speed, everything else turns to streaks.
I must admit, my fear brought me here, my fear of inadequacy, impermanence, and judgement. Still-in-motion, these notions would wash away, but so too would the present glimpses of beauty and warmth. At times I would run at these things, I meant to hold these feelings captive, as it felt they were captive over me. I couldn't reach them this way – perhaps I wasn't quick enough. Perhaps I'd need to be the fastest, the most pervasive, otherwise the pleasures of life I sought out would be lost to me. In this blur, streaks of green and red, naturally there was nothing I could see to tell me when to stop. Practice like you play, ah, but I was shown that my play is all practice.
I have long known a turbulent blindness, mine a deafening tongue. Like a tin man, a boy of strings, my words moved like thunder but my heart would not. I had set my heart aside for the journey, assuring myself it could be recovered, heeding not the hymns it would call out to me, and knowing not how or when to stop. Had I even come off the line?