Sometimes, aspiring to do something seems so simple, so possible, so reachable. You jump in start working, breaking trail, making your way.. all seems right with the world. Every hair on your arm lays relaxed and lays there, down aerodynamic with ypur skin.. and ROad BLOCk!
A tree laying on the path, blocking the way, seizing the reach of your destination. Stuck, heavy, mammoth, and unmovable. You notice your hair on your arm is standing up, twitching in the nervousness of you skin. Blockimg you from within.
Feeling an inner woodsman spirit guide the trim. Take that axe and whack it with a grin. Bust it up, chunks, broken into movable sections. Drawing on the power you’ve mustered to win. To break the barrier. To take that moment, that need to go at each swing with every tear of gusto leaving with each drop.
Sobbing.. every impact is only a dent, not even a puncture, sitting, hands tingling from injury.
Looking to the axe.. bsckwards. Really? Swinging and swinging a hammer,, not even an ax there at all. How? The idea is humiliatingly hilarious. To think, whack after whack and not make progress and not notice; to be so blockaded by the obstacles we are unable to see right before us.
Simply using the wrong tool can have dire consequences. Or the right tool used incorrectly the same. My brain led me on this daydream journey and I question its necessity.. conclusion; we are all tools. To be used, fabricated and adjusted.. a little adjustment here a tweak there.
Flipping that axe around swinging like you’ve never swung. Taking the stride to see the crack the wedge emerge broken from the wood emerging a slice to which you blockade IS movable, will be pieced out to clear the path. Break the trail and make it through, passing the pieces one at a time until the trusty axe and bicep are both spent To gain passage through the trail to see the light the golden of t e night. over the passage to top. Reaching just in time..
A sunset as glorious as the fight.
That so easily drifts off into the night.