I have not yet reached the imago of myself, whom I believe to be a cross between Indiana Jones and Han Solo, but perhaps a bit of brujería could help me meet my potential. Has my fearful conscience turned me into an aginner, unable to reach an enlightened stage of being? Tired of the unlife I have been living to this point, I brachiate to branches of courage when I can no longer hold onto the stems of fear and their prickling thorns of disappointment. The fent in the plan, though, is that oft the branches that lead to illumination are more likely to break than those that secure one in fear and stagnation. If only Tom Petty’s ‘Free Fallin” were a motivational soundtrack to everyday life.
Doth both butterflies and birds see their trees as the Praetorian Guard to their royal colours? A chrysalis high in the sky, even one yet to born a muted flyer, an ignoble kin of the usual prismatic royalty, deserves the protection of leaves and barks and certainly is owed more than a platitude for its eventual transformation into a disappointedly uncolourful miracle.
Did I check the box to see if there were any ciggies left behind and in need of a light and some inhalations? No. Why? Because neither do I interrupt art nor do I touch litter. I also could not help but wonder if the setup was a plisky, with a wiley raccoon ready to snarl-scare a scream from me if I were to snatch its prized carton of blue. My vaticination, though, is that the ciggies in the box are both smoked and unsmoked and, also, had I reached out to see what was inside, a hatted bear would appear, instead of aforementioned raccoon, and proceed to Wolverine me as blameworthy for disrespecting a forest tree he is sworn to protect. Oh, Smokey, you would not maul me if my bracketology had Baylor in the Final Four, would you?