Finally, it was my own death

That gave me the solace from which I generated new work. The block, the grey fog I had felt in front of my forehead, and the tension in my throat had been released. “I release.” These words, the words that held me bound to this earth and this body come so clearly out, they are just a final exhale.
This is calm, being incorporated again, on this earth, in this body.
In this sensation I am getting no where. I don’t know what or if or when I might achieve. I don’t know what ‘achieve’ means. Achieve. It is a self destructive concept. Its own definition destroys itself. It is a concept that cannot exist presently. It is something future projected, but when arriving in the future, it is then past. How painful. Like a rubberband of desires. Springing forward, always springing forward.
I am a vessel when I am in the process of being alive. When I am asking questions, I act, and then there is a response. Does a Real question have An answer? If it is real I don’t see how it can. It can have a response. A response in context that can be genuine, time-based, relative. Relatively true.

About noah crowe

I was born without a name. Later my family named me Noah Crowe. Crowe is my father's last name. I am an artist. Rather, I am a human being, seeking to know what I am. I am writing this blog to document my quest to know who I am in this world for my unborn son (and/or daughter). My father never passed on his journey to me, and I believe that it is story and ritual that informs our world; the worlds we live in, internally and externally. This is my way of giving myself, and my potential son, a window into this process of finding spiritual meaning and service in a culture that I find to lack the foundation of integration between the spiritual, the communal, and the societal.
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