Substance of things believed, professed evidences.

Does not it seem our futures are ever the more brittle pieces of plastic that end before their proper season, their expected breadth of time? Residual value be damned! Wow factor in those first moments place a mortgage note to the extent that a few tittles of today's bliss imprisons us beyond our own measure.

"...the dissolution of a dream becomes the fertile compost of possibility." -Maria Popova via themarginialian.org

I suppose these things we have beheld, seen, and heard, and in our gloom of the Dark Night of the Soul, ever the more bright is caused heaven and nature to gleam and glisten. From the voluminous nitre of the depths all is light by comparison and we are enlivened with thoughts of future prosperity. But in the darkness of the soul, a season of joy is brought to good in a season of gloom.

Imbolc, the old world interlude that is strangely in tandem with today's Groundhog Day, marks the window that promises tomorrow, the window of our hopes, and our hopes are the inscrutable hieroglyphics of things unseen. Tendrils four tether winter's weary daydreams to our memories of seasons and wishes for the coming spring.

In the common canvas cloak of our natural world, mutual destiny has set us to our appointed ends, without the divine reasoning, however, lest we taste of the Fruit of Tree anew and risk condemnation, risking our joy of life's indeterminant butterfly float amidst our supple but fragile mortalities.

Along January: bleary-eyed stories of dinners from the diaspora.

The worst of everything filtered through the sieve of angriest grizzled fingers stained a lifetime from their worst instincts; unabated it is, to the extent the beast is allowed to roam from most despicable pity. Atop barrels of scorn, condemnation they say "not I", "not I", but the digital missionary, the wanderer, the unbothered lost tell us time and again without variance, "that was I; that was me"......

My dinner portion is as varied as the wide world, and I would that I shared what was unattended, in preference of the hammer over the nail; given 25 minutes, I'd in return lend them the world for whatever purpose, without specification or terms of limitation--but to the energetically forklifting above their own means and beyond their own portions, perhaps it is to let them sit to be visited later by buzzards who are indiscriminate in their tastes of dead food.

I saw one, perchance, safely removed from the fray into the anonymity of the diaspora, urging on those who would run beneath the crow's nests on the plantations of their cosmic betters, urging them to death for tally in some bleary-eyed story of liberty; one only sells it without owning it, I think.

I saw one who proclaimed himself part of a group, for no other reason than his own saying so, nevermind that the others had their stripe, had their attestation, had a clearance of miles in the realm of approval, the strong arms of nature: what nature had wrought, it acted as the sieve, a keyway into his own definition of the light, though his glow in that daytime clarity would be false, to be righted once more in the strong arms of nature.

I saw one go to bed at 9 in the evening, not in fatigue, not in weariness for the condition of the world, but from the throes of apathy--yielding the night after spendthrifting the daylight towards the purchase of the night--twas against our narrator, that one can only concern himself with why, with no subsequent remonstrance of later dissipation, distortion, distraction, disaster.