There is a joy in keeping the mind clear, the keen edge of life. But there is also the glory of the fuzz; of not being clear, of being melty in the abstract. Warm and cozy, the personification of a fireplace in winter and not any other season. But warm and cozy contribute nothing more than what they are.
So is it willpower, staying fresh, when freshness is not always welcome? Even if it maybe should be? There is a fear in not knowing which I'd prefer. Would I rather be asleep, and am I better conversation when I'm dreaming?
am I a petal
rushing through the air? or just
floating in a stream?