red skies

I am awake, not as much as i could be, but i am here.  The deep thaw of my conscious mind feels unsure, like traversing a rocky cliff face, ever-fearful of one misguided step, plunging me into the abyss.

I do not know if this is yet another momentary spark of cheap inspiration, or an ember of clarity.  Only now, as i type this, do i see them as the same source, however i have been too foolish to start a fire.

I am not myself, you see, i am merely the passenger of this vessel, and my coachman does not seem fond of communication.  It seems handy to blame the state of the vessel on the abstract driver, however, we only blame others in an effort to ignore responsibility for the sake of our fragile carriage.

This wont make sense to you, the reader, but thats fine, i'm talking to my coachman right now.  stay out of this.

I see the pot holes, i know they are there, i could speak up, i could alert the driver, but i have grown tired of being ignored, and so i have reluctantly sunk into my seat, self ritiously reflecting on every pothole, or errant path chosen that i could foresee, but upon which i did not act.  It wasnt my fault.  Its not my fault.

Yet, the potholes remain.

Assigned fault is a complexity, not a solution.  If nothing changes, the carriage will succumb, and i will be left only with my worthless ledger of blame.  Clarity can only be achieved through communication.  I must summon the resolve to be heard.

This carriage is capable of so much more, but tools are only as good as the hand that wields them.

Clarity.  Resolve.  Focus.  This small ember can grow.  I can grow it.

I am the coachman