rolling purple hills

In the thick of things it is easy to let the sheer staggering beauty of this blue green planetoid we've come to know as home. The cyclical dance of insects and plants, sex and death, death and sex. Over and over, season by season. The hills outside have gone purple, vetch in full glorious bloom. The bees make their rounds, all bustle and buzz. The list of tasks grows ever longer and time slips away. Sunlit moments catch the darkness in pinchers of green grown brightness and shake it like a dog with a rabbit. Darkness screams it's silent scream. Light shines down in the cold and new green grows. Dormant seeds lay claim to fertile soil, left fallow for far too long. In these new blossomed fields joys unknown take shape. Their ways brought forth through careful tending. It is bright, it is beautiful, and there are mountains in the distance.

is this real?

The stumbling progress of hardened hearts builds towards a life worth living. These moments are what it lays its foundation on. Quiet determination, mixed with two parts insane caterwauling. All this, all this, all this. Time moves in fits and spurts. It's linear nature a lie. The flow moving inexorably towards crumpling flesh and creaky bones. That is real, this is real. This is real. All the moments in between are real.