the gabba

I was thinking that things change so quickly, and that one fine Sunday morning you feel a tanned arm wrapped around you, and you remember him promising the golden promise, and you feel relieved. And the next minute you are smelling the drops of rain en route to breakfast in the district, and he picks up a flower and hands it to you. And his shirt is thin and his shoes are thick, and his face is kind of fleeting every time you look at him. And he talks about art and life the way you have just learnt to see art and life, and he knows everyone because this town is so small. And you tell yourself, "I am this person," and he looks at you while pouring you water at the cafe and he suspects there are other things. And you embody most of those new things but you are still trying to frog leap most of your meaningless past scenery. And you feel like you're on the cusp of something, and that you've taken baby steps to finally turn into something, or someone, and that you sure have. You are slowly turning into something. And as you prototype your way into existence you remember that quote in class that talked about being ready for opportunity, because success is all about being ready. And he lives on the left bank, and he talks like one of them, and his hair is long, and you keep trying to catch him out like he's catching you. And you realise bragging and ego were the things keeping you afar, and that now you are penetrating that circle, which is pure and quiet and devoted to the habit of skill. And you realise, you keep coming out of caves. And it's really a mystery what's to come from this, because things change so quickly, and so they should.