A Watery Grave

Watercolours on paper.

Shadowplay:

El Palacio del Miedo,
La cueva de los heuvos perdidos.

Almongst White Clouds.

What changes in a person living so close,
to the birth and death in nature.

Are we somehow different from this old tree,
dying to be reborn.

This life, this struggle.
Something,
in this nature, in us all.
A calm and clarity in the face of change.
The face of uncertainty.

Ten thousand things, all in this breath.
Grasping hold of Emptyness, there's really nothing to say.

Craft Day:

"GwDiHw."

Treeless Mountain:

I Am Free:

Our genius know no bounds.
The passing of cellular forms,
From boy to man, man to boy.
We exceed, compel, outgrow.
A formation of ideals, mutated.

And each generation outdoes its former masters.
Shackled by the belief we can be better,
should be better,
must be better.

Why?

'the black coated men faded into a sea of birds,

death swallowed by death,

and the ravens and crows surged.'

Maybe I should have taken Literature.?

I am monotony, biology and water.
A passage for life and a passing from day to night.
This sour taste comes not from life,
but from living.
A dread of living with monotony.