Originally Posted by
Gary O
Words of experience, of a truth for sure.
I wrote some words in a book somewhere.
Words that come from deep within.
From this rhythmic thing in my chest.
Rather tribal.
They go something like this;
Very few deeds mark one’s existence better than creating something.
And that something can be a cozy structure.
The value is not monetary, but a form of fulfillment of one’s innermost being.
For me, most everything else is a void,
a bottomless abyss of pursuing elusive things with money,
instead of applying my own hands to the tangible,
of which remains so untouched these days.
The musician creates a song.
The poet creates prose.
The scientist makes discoveries.
Joe average slogs to work, making a living.
But building a simple cabin has a romance about it that beckons the soul.
