look outside, go outside, be outside

What is that green, fuzzy, oxygen releasing thing covering this world. That, my friend, is nature. Nature has this amazing ability to be the sublime; it takes the minuscule and powerful and after time reduces it to parts, atoms, and then seemingly nothing. The cruelty can seem oppressive while the intricacy may delight, and so it is in the duplexity of this purpose the inspires awe. Don't believe me? Look at the littered apple that evaporates within weeks outside, or on a grandeur scale that Aztec ruins that are slowly, but surely, being feed to the ravenous hunger of the nature.

It may seem like I'm personifying nature, but i don't feel like that. If anything nature has a type of spirit or reality that we can not relate to, but is evidenced in its action. This inability to relate has resulted in the continual musings of the artist. This dissonance with nature explains why poetry is often focused on nature. cloleridge, wordsworth, dickensons all have almost unnatural obsessions of nature, as well as the monets and seurats of the world.

So as i sit in my office, in a small concrete jungle, or descend below nature to a cubical on the first floor of the library I hear nature calling me to experience it. Urging and daring me to attempt to make my own criticisms of the power and effects it has on us. But alas, that philosophical deliberation about its purpose must wait as i study, and sit.

...all i want to do is go and play in the sun