Maybe it is the mind itself in search of validating its own process of thought that brings all ideas to mind in the hours of life that are passing without acknowledgement.  Our lives have gathered from the ancient of days in scripts and paintings of lives lived among the turbulent and the postulate places of other thinkers, who through combined observances and gatherings of their own senses, felt need to develop their appreciations of life in the various forms we read, see, hear today.  Maybe it is all of our fleshliness that is being asked to be denied, that is so in need of beginning to appreciate the afore attained knowledges. What more can one think than to delve into the mind of many a thinker to see the experiences that brought them to the palette of life in expressions of sounds to both excite and to calm, to awaken and to assemble, that have reached within them to etch their thoughts of their surroundings upon parchments of scrolls made from the grasses of fields sewn near rivers filled with workers enveloped by days light in search of daily and marketable substances to give life to the living.  What light must they see to feel the need inside their hands to blend onto canvas the intricate risings and settings of sun before mornings light, behind clouds of gathering shades, amongst atmospheres untouched by humanities imitations. The universe itself the master creator of all color in displays greeting each face it touches to partake of it freely without remorse or obligation knowing that all living souls will in time give worship to it’s rising. And so as it is with light, it goes that the night filled skies fret not with jealousies knowing that in its place it too carries the light of colors within itself and encourages each head that adorns the earth to cast its eyes upward to ingest the majesty of the greatness it inspires inside the hearts of kings.  What eagerness so induced those minds that they would dare to imagine crafts by which to fly there to yonder visions of lighted night in search of existence beyond itself. What playfulness must have they had to embrace to know that failure was imminent on multiple levels but the ascension of success was well worth the attempts and humiliating failures yet never dismissed. And so it is the same among the scribes of written forms who plunder and ponder the eventful non events of daily routines that they too have need of such playful creation to validate the garden of thinking where all ideas or submitted for consideration, accepted and rejected, for the nomination of expression. Each idea presented on the plate of offerings in colors, in shapes, in sounds, and conceptual obligations for each one it is offered to taste of then decide if it fulfills their daily nutritional need of growing, sustaining the idea of thinking upon the mind of the individual to validate their thoughts of life.  We wonder at times what life is for others. We conclude that all life is basic in a days time. Yet the inner workings of an individual’s life is shaped in the consciousness that it perceives exists and while we are categorically grouped for more reasons than our own, our minds search for likeness, our ideas search for their understanding realizing first the validity of being. Outward bombardments of grandiose sensations fail to call thinking justifiable denying basic interaction of learning to process as a foundation where all thoughts gather to be understood. When influenced by such great visions constructed into modern living the mind becomes overwhelmed by all the intake without output. Sometimes, taking moments of living to apply something as basic as reading alleviates the over active sessions required in day to day life and restores the mind’s windows to open the inner room for escapisms into considerations that are well beyond its complete understanding. Allowing the senses of the emotional mind to dabble in the paints of the maestros, trace the etched lines of the grand sculptors, dive into the colorful realms of unrestricted expressions to be taught of their nuances, their essentials, and their extensions as if we are children untaught and unlearned brings a new enlightenment to all considerations when presented for which by the perception of living becomes pliable or cemented under the branding irons of another.  It as though I would ask a child, “would you like to have an orange?” The child replies, “yes,” to which I could respond, “which part of the orange would you like to have? The rind, the pulp, the seed, the moisture, or the scent?” A young thinker would become distraught with such particles of thinking while an experienced thinker influenced by many things more intelligent than itself would understand, that the rind, the pulp, the seed, the moisture, and the seed are all included yet can be reasonably separated into individual thoughts and uses of their own. No matter how plausible those things appeal to the understanding of one will another be able to accept unless given the same opportunity to think within themselves. What is it that implores the ideas of such things to surface within the quietness of a mind in search of living that compels both hands and logic to restore itself upon a written page where the verbiage of the inflowing idea breathes new life into the stale airs of the scriptor. What importance does it have to anyone’s life except its own when held within such delicate confines where it exists only to be recognized as it is alive and well, relating only as it knows need exists. How should I present it to you if I offered it for your consideration: A game; here catch! A painting; oils in various oranges ranging from almost brown to fluorescents. A scent; warm water with essential oils to relieve your body from a days stress.  A relaxing moment; where the world melts away from your mind in whispered tones of voice. A massage; where experienced hands know how to unfold the tight skins of the supple muscles from their firm texture to a balance of lucid memory at rest. An acclamation of deserved tenderness; where tongue is replenished with moisturized delicacies to be washed in elegant softness. The harsh, vile, contradictions of its need washed away. A rejection; where the under ripe fruit is hard about its outside difficult and unyielding to peel, more bitter than hate’s venom, dry, and disappointing to anyone in search of thought. A weapon; hurled like a knife from my belligerent lack of wanting to understand, wanting only to punish the inquiry of your inquest, slashing away at your existence with the unwarranted animosities of maniacal madness for superiority. What would please you to know all the bestowed acquisitions rounding pygmy possibilities of speech ready to greet you if you read what breaths of thinking come alive from the ingredients given me to decide. I have an orange, my love, how shall I serve thee?

Jade Jaspers