Isle of Skye, Scotland
A drenching wave of contradictions. Hell, that's what I get for embarking on a series-person voyage of neurophilosophical discovery from a Scottish island. Late, too.
But thinkers need a place to think, and time to discover what they are. Some windsweeping, some frown lines, some laughter lines, some tears; a well-salted identity to dissolve with words.
And those words emanate from a splinter in my mind; the thorn of the future that is buried deep in me. One day, I may take it down into the liquid nitrogen with me. It triggers fear, rage, and soaring optimism about what is missing and what is to come. Sometimes I let it out. Sometimes I try to quell it by teetering in the moment. Contradictions.
Promise and peril tango in the half-light. Ceaseless. Breathless.