I breath in and hear a digitized melody. Clear to me, more than before, that perhaps not everything is as it seems. Not a new concept. A knew concept.
Simple facts have complicated history, while history is not so complex.
Boil it down to black and white and there will always be a trace of gray. No need to add color.
Routines, circles, back and forth, round-trip journeys. Old, stale, expected.
Bring on the new.
That melody haunts me. It reminds me I've become anticipated, mechanical and robotic.
It's time to stretch. It's time to warm up. It's time to light that fire under my ass. It's time to push beyond the point of comfort.