Red Ink

The ink you have is the ink you use.
Your hand is only as steady as the road
This bus motors down.
So today, it is red and rough.

I find myself, this morning,
In a pattern.
Not an evil pattern,
Not confining,
Limiting,
Or soul damaging.

No more than the pattern of a bridge
Destroys the river.

In a responsible life,
Freedom is found:
On the weekends,
In the happy hours,
On the edges,
In between the lengths of time,
Bearing down upon the grindstone,
There is laughter,
Laziness,
Long sunny mornings,
And other such lovely luxuries.

Time is an emotion,
An expectation of reality,
A trait of evolving eyes
On the front of your head.

I read about a tribe
In the mountains of western
South America,
Who believed they moved backwards
Through time.

At least, that's how we would describe it.
To us, they think time is a river
That flows around from behind.
They face downstream,
And see the past more clearly than the future.

As we do.

It is just a matter of perspective.
Where you look is who you are,
how you move.
Time is an emotion.
It depends on how one feels about...

Forwards, backwards,
Optimistic, pessimistic.

The question is:
How is your compass marked?

The magnetism of any needle
Points in the same direction for any of us.

But the placement of the origin,
And the names you give to the cardinals,
Is 'souly' up to you.