Calling for freedom, asserting freedom, fighting for freedom. Yet, when endless possibility unfolds, the inevitable retreat into false shelters and fear of the very thing we call for, assert and fight for.
Good to get back to a bit of sketching
Thomas Hardy walked here. Do some of these trees remember him? Did this ground feel the touch of the soles of his shoes, and did the stones hear his literary and poetic whisperings as he conjured up stories and poems? Do the leaves in their cyclical existence of life and death carry within themselves memories of his face in moments of creative struggle and insight? Thomas Hardy walked here and the Woods still remember.