WriteMyke

With a dynamic interlude lasting for far too long his dreams shifted. It was willed with complete defiance. Perspective is a funny thing, glamorous even. Yet, with struck eyes fixated on a hand-painted horizon, perspective will still carve a sunset and the day will come to an end. The moon will rise so a dormant seedling can sprout but a new design and, upon waking, manifests an obsession. Where obsession lurks, so must passion. Thus creating new goals, challenges and needs. This happens. It is normal. Usually it is subtle but sometimes blinding. It can be welcomed with magnificent esteem, grotesquely loathed or a confusing mixture of both. This is where he was found. His obsession was sound. A time when roots were severed, he found sanctity in music. It could capture and pinpoint an emotion, a time and a place. It could trigger any memory, fictitious or not, and bring an oasis to mind. A deserted island, if you would. A place untouched by the outside world. Shift a song to repeat