I Wonder Why We Are Always Sort

If The Air Is Jam-full Of Sounds Which We Tune In With, Why Should It Not Also Be Full Of Feels And Smells And Things Seen Through The Spirit, Drawing Particles From Us To Them And Them To Us Like Magnets?

There Is Something Bigger Than Fact: The Underlying Spirit, All It Stands For, The Mood, The Vastness, The Wildness.

I Wonder Why We Are Always Sort Of Ashamed Of Our Best Parts And Try To Hide Them. We Don't Mind Ridicule Of Our 'sillinesses' But Of Our 'sobers'.

It's All The Unwordable Things One Wants To Write About, Just As It's All The Unformable Things One Wants To Paint - Essence.

As The Woods Are The Same, The Trees Standing In Their Places, The Rocks And The Earth... They Are Always Different Too, As Lights And Shadows And Seasons And Moods Pass Through Them.