Escaping the sun

He was not always that something sitting and failing, tied by his hands and bound by one foot. Scratching to get away, biting himself to escape the sun. Looking through his catalogue of memories to find the one that fit best. The loss of entry, the ubiquity of the past and the ambiguity of the future, turning like a wheel together. The pain not even felt, an almost calm. Looking at the patterns of life, the cycle, and always returning to the red, then the pinks, then the yellow. The yellow is what saved his soul. The sun has yellow hue to it.

He tried to look into the monk's eyes. He couldn't, for the better. The shine of the helmet broke through the brightest, white and heroic like a great warrior's horse. Fighting within himself, trying to ignore religious dogmata and just getting to the basics. The buddhist lessons he's been learning and the locked up Mormon ones that pester.

Confrontation is the real story here, or rather the story forgotten, or even further rather the story failed to be recognized. It's all about confronting his fears and making it all real. He could of made so many other choices. He had that job there that would have grounded his place, he could of taken it easy, instead he had to splurge, to cycle; "live strong".

He's in a better place now, with friends and family. Learning from the past and developing a healthy core from which to grow. The seed close to his heart and the daily water replenishing, constant like a wheel.