Wayside Writing

There's always a sacrifice with priorities, it seems. Writing elsewhere consistently means this forum for release gets neglected, and journal time often takes second-string to novel writing, which fits into the corners and cracks of daily life. The same is true of anything. I've been strung thin with sleep since daylight savings, and I'm struggling to recover some semblance of rhythm (mostly the circadian sort). The weather gets chill, and foggy mornings and nights issue forth from over the hills, seeping into the valley like a tidal pool for the receding surf of clouds.
I was contemplating slowness the other day. I often believe everyone's definition of slow is quicker than mine. People who consider their molasses lives are slugging along, and I see these racing by - even snails on airplanes are moving fast, indeed. Living in a small town or country does not necessitate slow, but only suggests it. You can bring the city anywhere you please, if you spurn nature-living.
I once believed in this, the pen-ink dream, and cleverly devised brilliant lines schemed in gold and green. Brilliant, by-the-by, with diction not unlike effigy, clairvoyant, melancholy, where clear voyage into future sight was a crude and morose mimicry of gentility and aristocratic flair.
Now I pray those same breaths don't suffocate me, for some while. When these beliefs do not drown, they fly so elegantly, fluttering with vestigial wings.