Sliding. Greasing the rails for purpose. For rescue. Rescue back the the things I love. Rescue back the best parts of what and who I am. Rescue the sinking dream. Without pushing, without laboring, without forcing it. Without pain. Slowly, slowly, slowly go. Slowly yet back the narrowest toll. Slowly now and slowly again. Slowly I find the effortless gain.
In ma. In peace. In breath.
Maneuvering. Sic, mandating. Vis a vis. When once the time has come again time it shall be. Again. But never yet not yet. To see I must wipe the distractions from my face. The skin and the drink, the doldrums and the sink. The narrowest slit of a needle eye, but bright and full and beaconing me. The swell has found me, and caught me, and in it I now pass onward. Time distances all things but death, ever closing, ever winning. And so to myself I mutter in conspicuous capitulation: Head up man, lets do what we’re here to do.
skullstudy, Erik Jacobsen
