Then it came to me. It doesn't have to be something spectacular. It doesn't have to be the Nobel in literature. The only thing that it needs to be is my medium of expression. My canvas of sort.
Then the mind wonders. It's allowed to be free in it's self. To become less of being in itself but to allow the process to become a theme embraced. Flamboyant attempts to herd words into longated structures of overstretched rubber bands will not be necessary.
The heat of the ROK continues to bring drops of sweat down the brow. The wind doesn't blow enough. The shades don't shelter enough. It all passes while I sit in the office. The day passes like the days before. Here, I wish to be out there. When I do find myself out there it's ironic that I have nothing to do and find myself settling for a cool air-conditioned room.
I'm divided inside.