there are rules, but what these are are yet to be determined..
he sat in front of us, before him, row upon row of slightly comfortable, green and gold trimmed chairs sat fixed on his every word. they weren’t glamorous words, or superfluous, just plain and to the point. interrupted only by thoughtful questions and the clink of wine glasses and clap of beer cans returning to rest on the polished floor. each ear sat glued to attention, and of the many hundred pairs each heard what they wanted to hear.
but like all ninety plus minutes of conversation (or stories) the words blend into one another, and it becomes a moment over a series of sentences. old age blends into new – these moments, his thoughts, the action that followed. we’re impressed by the wisdom and acknowledgment of the subtleties of life. it’s no longer this and that, just is.
the wine glass empties in a thunderous applause. seats shift and scrap the polished floor, voices return to throats in bustling conversation and the spectrum of people not interested in lingering shuffle to the door. shuffling the same as any crowd does to a narrow escape.
the room becomes quiet and begins to pack itself up. we’re left with a blurry echo. what sticks with me is a simple sentence.
‘liberty is fuelled by, or is the essence of, limitation’
our boundaries are set by ourselves. we decide on what we can achieve, by when. this collection is a composition of specific short thoughts written down since relocating once again to another part of the land..