Everyone is looking for something. Most of us want to find it quick. We want to get where we’re going, do what we’re doing. Then… what?

Here we are logging in, clicking, liking, maybe sharing. Our brains are psyched to get so many instant releases. It tricks us into thinking we’re actually doing something meaningful. Maybe we are, but did sharing that post about the starving children really do anything?

So you write. Writing takes longer. It gives voice to ideas, thoughts; innovation. But everyone is writing. Articles and books are published all at once until even the best works are surrounded, covered. Everyone is a self-proclaimed writer. The “everyone is an artist” generation produced a society of people who would rather complain about what they don’t have than work hard labor to earn more.

But some of us grew up before the internet. Some of us remember something that’s out there.

It calls to us.

Every day we seek windows. Open doors. Places without walls.

Roots, bark, and limbs cradle us.

We wander lichen paths to places almost forgotten. Earbuds fall away. A chorus of windsong’s distant breath awakens.

We can smell freedom in the sky.

 Roaring, tweeting, growling wild we still remember the eternal mother. She won’t forget us even after she’s been left behind. No one can break that bond. It is not human.

Stories linger in the dark. They don’t care about paper. Keyboards and AI mean nothing to them. They grow, they shift, some retreat but remain. Waiting behind cheap smiles and fading posts, your stories refuse to die.

We forgot they are never for sale.

Songs are not a business.

Images unlike anything else on this planet burn brighter than critics.

Crafting a piece is in our bones. The marrow seeps. But one must make a living.

Living for pleasure instigates a brow of lace. Useless and sick. Hands must hold, drive, callus; find the open fields and work to achieve gratification. Then comes the rest.

Or, just continue clicking buttons.