The First Step Is The Deepest, Baby I Know

This isn't going to be pretty. There was a line that led me to the past. Finding a place that hadn't changed. I couldn't remember my childhood growing that peacefully, but sure enough it was more rustic and charming than even my most darling dreams. You know the ones, they give you hope and hold you like no one in your life has ever known. Sometimes they serenade you. Sometimes they disappear. Sometimes, they turn on you. That's right. One seemingly arbitrary night they'll twist and turn your stability until you've woken up changed and affected for the next day, week, month, or half-hour. You've felt shaken. You've stirred. I spoke of inertia. I keep telling people about this fucking artist inertia toward everyday living and sustenance and long-term planning and the blah that goes with the futile and the other blah of the living dead. It's not a wall to be busted down, it's a maze to be undertaken and can be a bit difficult because somewhere near the entrance, I'm lying on a sandy warm beach basking in a precious glow of creativity and love and freedom and activity and good fortune and just a sprinkle of self-delusion, just a sprinkle. I believe it to be necessary to the recipe. I believe it to be the common thread between all of the grand ambitious, results-be-damned, results-be-varied souls who take giant blindfolded leaps across chasms of indeterminate size and above fields of indiscriminately sharp teeth. The psychologists will have their field day. The rational minds will stomach-punch your projected purpose. Projected being only the illuminated blueprint whose fate has no bearing on the machine that provides. The machine is better likened to a root. The root is better discussed as a dream. The dream is broken down into components of who you were born to realize, what came to influence your path, and how you chose to most beautifully express what it is you have to feel and ultimately say.