Behold the times are here that make us think as it is the first time I can think of that we have time to do so as a collective and not as individuals. The issue being that we have no idea how to think, how to truly ponder things. We have become very observant, yet have no eyes, we listen without hearing, touch without feeling. The world has become something we make it not what it is. Gentil rasps of the rising sun give the morning a light we have forgot to stop and see. For the mornings are no longer dedicated to seeing existence, it is seeing a clock and how much time is left to the day. The whistling old man who just sits on the corner feeding birds, a smile, a honest smile no one knows how to make he has found in the sounds of the tweeting birds ever so gracious for the seed the man provides. For in the concrete jungle has no ground to have seeds lay upon it. Just soulless crushed stone. The cold steel is the hands only companion when climbing stairs, reaching for the warmth of a fond limb of a tree of generations that is the helping hand to cross a river. A warmth and true rough that holds memories in scars and time. Unlike steel the cold ruminates of a processed means into cold unfeeling ridged things. Not art and not pure as the construct tires to be. The birds, giving a song of endless times. Not music, but a heritage of endless times that have taken the dull mornings into a opera of notes and song that brings warmth alongside the rays of sun that peak though the dancing trees. Leaves and branches having a morning claim to the songbirds and yawning families in the tree notch. The morning dew dried by the cotton pants of the old man sitting on a cushioned park bench, a paper bag rustling as the wrinkled hand that has held more than the world will ever know. This paper bag holds more then just seed, it holds the times of peace in a world of burning timbers, A time when a bag was containing the gifts of gods. A sack of food that these birds question not, for they are in the same heart beats rhythm with the old man, for it is the rhythm of time and beating hearts who have seen the ages pass. It is the only thing that would ever have a smile shared across speechless words.

The thing is oblivion is not a curse or a time of peril, it is a state we must all face and contend with, it is the missing man when the birds come for the paper bag full of grain, It is the home that was a simple tree notch that is cut down for lumber to make a table. Dancing trees give up their majestic dance for a lonesome life in the center of the a yard burdened to be alone dancing for no one. The songbirds long gone to the horizon finding the next morning that holds the gracious dance of trees and sun, not the moans of cars and trucks burning off the morning dew, not the rays that reach down to warm the ground. These are the things of oblivion, things we have torn away from the world that was so it can be the world we want. The change with meaning, meaning that things will not become better with us, it is the case that we are harbingers, we are the meaning of the change. We make it, we desire it, we manifest it through will and trials. We are the oblivion that nature fears and humanity breeds.

Its all a point of view until the change no longer can be done, then it is consequences of action. We are just blind to everything in-between so we can act surprised in the end. That is our specialty beyond all other creatures, we are blind to cause and blame results.

I am just a thinking Ginger who has thougths.

Until Later

Much Love

Your Friendly Ginger From The Woods.