Passion v. Vision- KO!

So it comes to passion and vision, the two things one cannot live without in the City.  Without the pairing, men are destined to be the walking dead.  These men are necessary in the City, but not the heart of it.  So, I am left in the despair of the realization of only being with one of the lovers.  Passion abounds, but with no object, there is no vision, and all the energy and fervor in the world are for naught.  My soft heart tears like a rotten peach on every blunt edge, and my body will not slow for its own welfare.  Licking my own wounds is counterproductive to healing, but brings temporary comfort and target to distract me from my lack of vision.  If only I could figure how to lick my own heart and eyes to heal the rift of my passion and vision. 
            Sometimes I long to be a great artist.  To make works able to move the hardest of men to tears.  Not by sentimental appeal, by but illustrating and being Truth.  Other times I think I might have some masterpiece of words welling up inside me that will bring about civic catharsis and lift all people out of their trance.
            But my greatest longing and desire is to impassion others, for the Lord, beauty, truth, and life.  But I lack the vision, and in it, become the walking dead myself.  I can see the final composition I want, but when I try to focus on a part or stroke, I am left confused or blind, like the first time I had a migraine, or a brain tumor. 
            I would rather be thwarted, than be so powerless.  In hitting a brick wall, at least one is moving beforehand, and then there’s even the ricochet.  It seems better than sleeping awake.
            So vision and passion, glass and fire.  The imprecise and global desires of my heart for peace, beauty, and truth paralyze me.  Vision seems so immediate and local to me that I could never accomplish all that I see.  Paralyzed by my own inaction, there are so many causes that I ache for.  But I do not feel a pull.  And cannot know where success lies.  And I am frozen. 
            If I cannot see any outcome, regardless of probability, I am dismissive.  I feel like I must ride my bike off a cliff, to make sure my parachute doesn’t have any holes in it.  Perhaps I should knock on all the doors to have them slammed in my face, rather than wait in the cold for one to open.  A draft of warm air every now and then is enough to keep me going. 


Mid-Winter's BBQ

So after that last posting of writing jeremy reminded me of this piece I wrote at the end of fall/beginning of winter when I could still ride my bike. I have been experiencing a bit of the winter gloom lately, so I though maybe I would post it to urge "bikeable" weather forward. I think there might soon be plans for a "Mid-Winter's BBQ" as well with the same purpose.

Sunny cloudy Sunday ride
down Ocean Parkway to see the bay.
Pay respect to the gray scale amusement park who rivals the coma of the beach.
And the thumbp, thumbp, thumbp of my bike on the boardwalk sounds like a happy eternal flat tire.
A scratchy Italian radio is playing for two scratchy Italian men.
No bass at all.
I sit two benches away on an otherwise deserted stretch of planks to eavesdrop on the movie magic.
I wish I had a thermos of something to sip and wrap my hand around.
Ride home trying to remember sand and thumbp, thumbp, thumbp.
My love for an island that is not really an island is stillborn in the early winter air.
I am trying to ignore the “empire” in “The Empire State” of every license plate.
I pass.
The spooky grit of coney island trumps antiseptic fireworks of Times Square