Leaves start being tinged with rouge, orange, and liquid gold. They drift to the ground as if hinting at the approaching snow, making way for bareness, for refuge seeking, hibernation, and rebirth. We begrudgingly loop scarves around our necks as if a grudge against what the sky is doing matters any.
Where are the new and strange people with stories to tell?
I'd like to rewrite my own stories, and to strike a creative goldmine.
I hope to be wandering out in the woods one day and trip over a branch to find myself submerged in a stream of creative consciousness that will carry me wherever it wants to.
Maybe it'll pour me out into a cathedral of sound where the challenge is not to find chords that complement each other, but single out a melody from the myriad of endless perfectly paired notes.
I'll look up to see swirling colors on the roof and the question will not be what to paint, but how quickly I can get my hands on a brush to dip in that ceiling and begin.
Upon walking out my surroundings will be moving. I will have to join them to prevent getting motion sickness, and the question will not be of what movements will look best together but doing what my body is crying out for me to do.
I will walk right past the bar because who in their right mind would choose to go sit in a dark room when there is such wonder to behold in staying in motion?