The buds come again, before the final frost, and as moisture leaves the earth we trick ourselves into thinking we can tread without a trace. I walk alongside the runway; my shadow is long before me as stories and histories knock on my consciousness. Victory is a funny thing, as losing then may mean winning now, hindsight smugly and deceptively suggesting how we thought we were blind at the time. My heart beats again, on the same path I have traversed a thousand times, yet each with a conjuncture new, a wilted melody that somehow still manages some originality. The light streams through the window, the shadows in the dusk and under the artificial illumination. We learn, earn, spend and endlessly debate. Life rhymes sardonically, rings insistently, in this place we come back to, where we lay our head, love, play and live and yet so often cast our focus elsewhere; for daily routine is layered, intertwined, dull and brilliant, with one spin of the Earth after another, pulsing near and far. Here, memories and anticipation swim inside and outside, specks of dust hanging in the air caught suddenly in their dance as a beam of sunlight breaks through and reveals them. They leave and return, as we do.
