Greg Mason Burns

Sometimes You Gotta Fly

A blessed fisherman in Coquimbo, Chile telling me that sometimes you gotta fly.

A blessed fisherman in Coquimbo, Chile telling me that sometimes you gotta fly.

Like┬áso much in this world, there are a million things I don’t know anything about. I’m struggling now, and I know it will kill me the next few days until I turn it around; and then I’ll find myself melting into a pool of gold, smiling, laughing, crying, grateful, sticky. Sometimes you gotta fly.

I have no expectations, and probably even fewer skills. Sometimes I wonder if I even have the drive, passion, or heart. Other times, I weep with my luck and pray for the best of times to continue. I hope, I wish, I pray, even if I can’t pray because I haven’t a clue how to do so or to even whom. Sometimes you gotta fly.

Sometimes you gotta crumble to the ground and hope that you can pick yourself up. Today, I can’t even crumble. Cadmium Yellow acrylic over Ultramarine, Ivory Black, and Zinc White oil because a white background leaves me unfinished. An Ultramarine blocked off sea surrounding a fisherman’s blessing draped in Burnt Sienna. A Cerulean sky, darkened by Ultramarine at the top, fading as the brush runs out of paint over the desert hills over Coquimbo. Sometimes you gotta fly.

Sometimes I just gotta let it go, and let it flow, and worry about it later. Just gotta do this and do that, and let the universe and take me away. I have nothing, and then I have it all, but all of nothing is still as nothing as nothing can be. I want to cry and hold the ground, cuddle with it and squeeze it into the back of my neck and the top of my head and wipe it across my chest, my head, and my hands. What’s next? Sometimes you gotta fly.

Tomorrow is next. And then I’m going to have to pick myself up. No bootstraps here. I gotta jump. Sometimes you gotta fly.