i : Ming I : i

It was last night, after a weekend of time spent away from the clutter of urban living, that i returned to my place. Cultivation in mind and a moment of chance lending its own direction to my inquiring mind. There, the pages opened to the sign at hand. Ming I. I listen carefully to these rare moments wherein i become aware, if for just a short time, of my steady path upon this crooked road. All things have their way; their cycle of life. I certainly have mine and i was perhaps less aware among the past days of what was just in front of me; the unkown, the changes and the gradual turn of another page in life. From this perspective i should refrain from my outward progression and turn again to my inner self. Surrounding me are the countless points of darkened light, fallen from their own awarness and counting of effort exherted from a position of unsteady foundations. So, agian i listen carefully, quietly and with an eye to the inner seed, to the atmosphere through which i float with an occassional time of navigation. This vessle will move towards the studio, water the seed, and wait patiently for the turing of the tides; the moment where i can once again move about freely among the urban sea.