Weirdo

To have an artist's heart is to look odd.

People zip around you for the day while you move slowly and listen to a haunting scream of a seagull coasting above water that looks like it's getting stirred from the bottom up.  The top ripples, slightly an echo of what's below.

People go one way, you go the other.

So much business of meals, activities, and role playing makes you tired and starved for a nap on a blanket of pebbles and dead grass.

There is no hope for you seeming connected, present, or remotely normal when you can't shut out the conversation between a motherly breeze and the happy lapping of her little waves on the shore.

Black bodied ants and six downy duckling investigate you closely to see if you think of them too.

A day alone is not lonesome when you have the company of a world that is never the same thing twice.
 
Everything here at the lake is in motion for its own survival, driven by its own insides, surrendering pieces of itself in the end for the greater good of something not up for debate. Their journey is important because they exist. That's enough proof. No pondering for millipedes. Doing is believing.

Blue spirals with two gaping holes on a seashell are like bullet wounds.  "Where were you going? Did you ever get to arrive?"

A boat of fishermen is gliding past Sadie and me. She watches with expectation that they belong to her. She controls the world with her eyes.

Why make sense where there might only be survival?

The fact that there is a chance of more is what makes an artist's heart so hopeful, so odd, so out of touch.  Because that place, the possibility of more, is where we live.