|Phoenix, Feb 14|
I yield to roses though it slows me down. I can't see lashing out at roses. Or: at random strangers, spiders, cyclists, drivers, or trees. Particularly not trees. Even if they cause me to stop my relative forward motion briefly to ponder their bark's crenulations. O the world tends to lash out at delays. At the collective woes and wrongs and injustices which consciously focus somehow collectively multiplied to harm purposefully individuals who for example in America-2014 would not appear to have it that rough but must be deep down raked with unknown badness to lash out with such rage at such trivialities as the perception of someone rolling peacefully along on two wheels causing a brief delay to their headlong dash for home.
|An odd and possibly inappropriate target for blind rage|
I yield to roses though it slows me down. I gaze into its heart-stopping depths and think of alternative choices that one might make (freely):
cosmos: cold/indifferent, hot/cruel, only/is
life: short/bitter, long/painful, now/beautiful
me: anger/rage, lash/fight, open/clear
moving: fast/direct, fuel/smoke, balance/flow
Strike out for a wild land of conscious choice and focused conscience. Assertive suggestion that lashing out at roses is a you-problem. Offer of listening and conciliation. Instant Alternative Dispute Resolution of the street. Choices that somehow cut the universe some slack while taking responsibility for the power and opportunity to choose. And power through, power through.
Shut your eyes: there's perfume in the sunshine.