On this planet, many activities in the moment.

I do not exist except in the moment.

I walk on well-paved thought trails today, not interested in pushing envelopes or developing new art states.

I cannot tell if anyone reads these words or if everyone who can read reads these words.

No storylines to perpetuate.

The happiness of silence will do.

A voice drowned out by the greenness of new leaves after a lot of water fell from the sky.

Numb.  Ignorant.

Existing with no timescale or socially-interactive technology advancement that matters.

Being, not doing.

One of seven billion will do.

Most of us are amateurs giving away advice and sharing opinions about the work of professionals.

I grew up worshipping warriors in the arena.  Who is now growing up worshipping women with advanced degrees in the workplace, warriors of the word rather than the sword?

I have no place in the modern world.

My time, my set of thoughts given to me by my sub/culture, is gone.

The cycle of life catches us all in its spokes.

We innocently flirtatious middle-aged men are fast becoming relics.

Time to sit back in my forest haven and watch the vines grow up around me, which feed off my breath while I feed off the labour of unseen hands.

The invisible hermit is in his element.

The imaginary sense of balance is settled.

My dream is alive.

Sic as ye gie, sic wull ye get.

May the best ye hae ivver seen be the warst ye’ll ivver see.
May the moose ne’er leave yer girnal wi a tear-drap in its ee.
May ye aye keep hail an hertie till ye’r auld eneuch tae dee.
May ye aye juist be sae happie as A wuss ye aye tae be.

The Scottish Emigrant’s Farewell

Fareweel, fareweel, my native hame,
Thy lanely glens and heath-clad mountains!
Fareweel thy fields o’ storied fame,
Thy leafy shaws and sparkling fountains.
Nae mair I’ll climb the Pentlands steep,
Nor wander by the Esk’s clear river;
I seek a hame far o’er the deep-
My native land, fareweel for ever!Thou land wi’ love and freedom crowned,
In ilk wee cot and lordly dwelling
May manly-hearted youth be found,
And maids in every grace excelling.
The land where Bruce and Wallace wight
For freedom fought in days o’ danger,
Ne’er crouched to proud usurping might,
But foremost stood, wrong’s stern avenger.

Though far frae thee, my native shore,
And tossed on life’s tempestuous ocean,
My heart-aye Scottish to the core-
Shall cling to thee wi’ warm devotion.
And while the waving Heather grows,
And onward rows the winding river,
The toast be “Scotland’s broomy knowes,
Her mountains, rocks, and glens forever!”

Meaning of unusual words:
shaws=flat piece of ground at the foot of a hill
ilk wee cot=every small cottage
wight=vigorously
broomy knowes=hillock clad in broom