Flat surfaces superimposed in 3D alignments against the horizon, hard edges, challenges unsought for that must be met at every seeming second. On the street level, your illusions stand for nothing but what you’ve truly bought into. You sense shame, a fundamental smotheredness. Aspects of yourself that you cannot defend are attacked by glances that you have left unmet. You yearn for an openness that is only earned through pain. The sense of being incomplete surrounds you—the dissonant shards of failure due to negligence are strewn across the surface of the streets. Are you beautiful enough to join in its din? Are you pure enough? Are you enough of steel, enough of integrity, enough of acceptance? This is the challenge of the street. You must deliberately shed, sufferingly, your protective mundanity, the blinders that allow your days to fast forward into oblivion. Can you feel it, fully, the force of the untouched, the anguished power of the unsaid?
To walk, balanced, swaying in fecundity, through the broken corridors of the streets. The beat that drops assuredly through crooked time. Your flow is rapture, your channeling deliberate, your connections run deep. Integrity. Spirit. Vulnerable as the stars, naked in the frigid night, shaking out the past.