Every morning, I have to do the excavation process of removing all of the dirt in my mind in order to find the bones/relics beneath. Something to accrue meaning from. But maybe the dirt also has meaning. Its function is to cover up the thing. That also is a story. The dirt tells about the earth, the bones tell us about the historical people. Both are important because they were in a connected dance. The humans’ lifespan determined by the fertility of the dirt. The life of the dirt determined by the people who stepped in it, grew from it, and were buried in it.

I think I’m always looking for the gold or the smallest most viable bits of knowledge or information in my writing. And I’m always discarding the dirt. Which is my subconscious thoughts. The thoughts that feel like a tornado in my head that do not stop. I think both are valid. Are both valid to other people? I don’t know about that.

I just can’t get over how I/we have been conditioned to be entertained. That is not even the correct word. I don’t know what the correct word is. We want the knowledge without doing the work of getting it. We want to see the progress without the time that progress takes. I’m tempted to compile a time lapse of the seeds that are growing in my home. But the time lapse is not real. We can’t condense the growth of 3 months into 15 seconds. Well, we can… but where does it leave us? Wanting change that is automatic? It never is. It is slow.

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