Desires, I normally write tomes for in adulation, but he is fickle. The moment an effort mounts, it seems, the spirit I laud so powerful, strikes suddenly enfeebled. The greatest ideas sit on apper as I sit on my keister, and desire’s way from keyboard. Well, my walk yesterday was ambling out the door right after him. Even restless, I don’t always energize the right outlets and loathe myself for slothful tendency. The breeze, enthused by a decongestion, beats on my back, Nature pushes in the right direction. The subtlety of the shift did not escape my vision, but my pencil scribbles scratch the surface and itch with hesitation. Every turn, another challenge to the personal predicament pushed. Children, playing together, a mother wheeling a weeping third tyke back to the group, two grizzled men seeking mutual support, separated by shoulders apart, even the performance arts came to the court and broke it down. Desire, like Jeru, bopped to and fro around everyone, yet today it evades. Sloth drags his feet, as he shuffles to an idyllic beat, half, if not a quarter the tempo, but his own tune, no less. I daresay desire does at it pleases, a retreat feint to an ambush, to catch one off-kilter, but the habit I seek is excellence. I dodge its deception and keep on. Remarkable, I seek the desire to endeavor in arts, academia alike through the temperance of an ascetic.
