Byline: Love letters in the Sand

Buford Youthward

Jetting off into the sunset, staring into solar abyss, the past awaits all people moving forward. Nature follows its own karma. We eventually deteriorate into our own skin.

Graffiti and identity swirl through the debris of time. Humanity wrestles with wind and water. Riding shotgun you can hear the air whistle a soundtrack for the landscape.

Evocative images speckle the scenery. History and myth collide in the collective imagination. Using clichés in original ways and citing communal references is a requirement to survive outside the vacuum. What is here, is as it seems. Hear?

I catch my breath midweek at month's end making it with a soldier's mindset. Military minds understand programming better than most programmers. Men on missions must make good and by all means I'm made to maneuver.

Distracted by devils, hitchhiking for redemption, I get gone and got my own information. Go forth and get yours, write your own film, script your dream. Fix your information to a myth.

Instead we sit and sift through all this networked data as anthropologists in disguise, gleaning at hieroglyphics for the space age, masquerading as happenstance.

Trespassing seems to be in some people's nature. Graffiti writers can't keep off the grass, transgression is part of their essence. For every creation, there is an equal destruction, curses and blessings are indistinguishable even with digital transmission.

The summer season closes but the world isn't closed for the season. Letters of love are scratched across beaches while Southern souls suffer the cruel crush of gulf water waves.

Worlds divide people, but space keeps us within proportion. The demons inside us have nothing to do and all day to do it. All it takes is a taste of nature to prod the demon. Best to keep checking the rearview to see which side of karma you're on.

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