Brick by Brick, Four Wheels

Any two hearts can reflect or refract.  The difference lies within the lens, complicated by the mechanics of the mind.

Compounded by the ego.

Build a bridge between the head and the heart to see what travels between them. Pave the way.

The thrill of it all depends not upon a red wheel barrow (perhaps used to carry to and fro the bricks needed to complete the structure), but upon the process of the building. Complicated by the pull of the ego.

Compounded by the strength of the heart.

It’s true that to and fro constitutes most of the required motion for bridge-building, but it need not be cumbersome.

Think of it as dam letting, from the top down.

One who completes a bridge may wish to carry their vessel to its grand opening, ribbon cutting, inauguration, celebration.

It’s likely that Ghandi will be there in the crowd of on-lookers sharing the anticipation of the final snip.

The great thing about the opening day is that everyone can stand at the bridge’s center, shouting greetings to the world and listening to them echo over esophageal-like canyon, ecstatic and rebounding off the outer canyon edges, seeking the next solid object from which to refract again and return.

Echoes can be like boomerangs when wielded properly.

Beware the resonance into infinity; it’s important to be mindful of what goes on forever from the source, if you control it.

Chug-a-chug.

Hush, hush.

All hot air rises. Moving air means cellular respiration, telepathic phones.

It’s funny how it didn’t seem like a bridge was being built from the beginning.  It could have been anything, a table, grandfather clock, nesting dolls.

You won’t find this bridge in an entry for combustion or engine, but rather “under” the listing for byway.

Ironically, bridges are typically used to go “over” things.

Remind the ego of the need for grease.  A rich engine is all that can be contained and will be combusted.

It’s amazing to think that internal combustion refers to something which is constantly being set afire, over and over and over again at speeds too fast to see with the naked eye.

The same is true of the heart. The heart can never be seen but only felt, firing, firing and firing again, sparked by something appearing to be outside of itself but subject to the mechanics of the inner workings.

Pumping, electrified, open to the guzzle of blood like an engine running rich and smelling of exhaust heavy with fuel.

Where the heart can travel, along the bridge, is the only road ever taken.

Everything that echoes must not converge, roads intertwining and intersecting like the complicated byways of synapse and nerve impulse.

Nothing that echoes will intersect, invisible, and subject to invisible directionals, invisible road rules and absent stripes.

All that can be burned, roasted, sparked and set aflame can return to the hearth, return to the earth, return to the heart.

Brick by brick, barrow by barrow, w-ego and build and pave and clear and forge and extract and drive, four wheels, one heart, one mind, two hands, two feet.

10 = 1 + 0 = 1