muller

So the wind has decreed upon the house of the Mule. The leaves that once adorned my path, pointing the way, encouraging each step, have now been whisked away from underneath my feet to reveal an open field. Although the field is paired with sunflowers and field mice, It's not a place I can sit down and spend time in. I'm a mover. I need to keep going forward and forge with what I believe. I can stop to take a breath, to plot my course, to take inventory on what has come about, but I must be on the move. Time is of the essence.
To the left, over the tree line, I can see a series of mountain peaks. Grey in colour, and tipped in white, the terrain looks rough and barely traveled. To my right, a canyon cuddling a river like a big brother leading you through a tough crowd. The river seems to lead father than the eye can see, but what lies ahead of me almost frightens me. It's dark and cold, and smells like fresh air, but I can't make out any images. It looks to be a canvas, and I just so happen to have some oils and a brush in my back pocket.


I think it's time to paint.



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"nevermind the words they say, they can't see your mind."
-Jeremy Enigk