Why am I wasting my time

With any of this, questions, doubt, waiting for the right moment, another moment, moment. Why wait for love? I love lucy. There is love with lucy. There is not one but many, the only question is how long will we wait to commit, to commit to any of it, thhe words, the book, the vision, the selves calling, the stage, the screens, the love, the everything? My mind is tired, my brow is sore, my eyes, but my belly is full, full of the vision quest, the stamping of my feet on the sacred mountain, of the beating of my heart to speak, the tightness of my throat, its fear at being opened, vulnerable, of having committed to one of a myriad of sounds, to a song that it can be said to have sung.
What are we waiting for, the children of anything is possible? What flag, whose permission can possibly tell us it is now, Now our time to inherit the earth, the world, to throw out all the old forms, the credit, the ownership, the structures os separation anxiety and accumulation, discard them like old socks, we are simply tired of the bare balls of our feet on the floor, throw them out, who is watching, who can possibly tell us no?
We are the ones the earth has been waiting for. That is why we hear her call more than the generations before. This is why we are the green generation. They are waiting for us to take over, to take it back to give it all away; for the streets to bloom the skies to clear the children to dance.
This generation is ours. We are of age. We are not the indigo children, we are their brothers and sisters and uncles. We are the strong ones. We are the bodies who will tear up the tarmac, who will stop the cars who will plant the first food in the center lane. We are the ones who will shoulder the walls of our separation, crumble them down into footpaths and walkways and spiral jetty’s. We are the ones who will plant the oaks where the power poles once stood where the oaks once stood before.
We are not the storytellers we are the ones whose deeds and muscles and sweat and risk and smiling brows the stories will be told about and then we wil tell the stories when our work is done when we are the heirlooms of the villages and communties and living cities whose names we have not named yet. we will let the children name them. They will name them because their hearts will be full of the power they have seen of the joy they know in their hearts being held by such places our backs and arms and resolve will create for them and they will know the words for this world better than us for we have not lived it and they will have been born in it and their rightful place will be to name the world we have built for them, for they are the only ones who can name our world, for they feel it directly and are not yet under our delusions of necessity this and history that.
We are the storytellers seed planters hill builders, and the cities will be for the people and not the people for the cities. The people will be for the people and the people will be for the plants, for the sky, for the oceans, for the trees and the forests and it is the nations, the nations will be for us and there will be one nation, for the us are the people who are simple. Who want to sing and dance and embrace each other and our children, all our children to be safe and to know each other and know warmth and food, and belonging and place and to get to give and explore this world we have allowed to grow through our fingertips, through our, not fighting but through our letting of old forms go, our neglect will let the old forms fall apart and they will mulch themselves, mulch themselves and all of their inhabitants into new roles, new ways of being, of service, of seeing.

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