INT. HIS MIND – PERPETUAL SUMMER

INT. HIS MIND – PERPETUAL SUMMER 

It’s okay to let your passions drive sometimes,

let your anger climb,

sing choirs of prophets, ring with righteous indignation,

sing out with fractured advocate cries,

surely we have to rage, rage, rage, against injustice, wherever we see it, or else we’ll be dead before we believe it, bang our drums and make them notice…

INT. HOUSE – KITCHEN – DAY 

Walk down the stairs, bare feet against carpet, oh silently, oh silently, the house slowly awakes,

wait patiently for kettle to boil and tea to brew, take in that sweet loose leaf fragrance, 

the great tit sings –

“morning, morning, feed me, if you please.”

Her song is so plaintive, it’s hard not to see. 

The first sip is divine, dear lord may we encounter more moments of joy than dread, in this new day ahead.

EXT. THE EXISTENTIAL DREAD WE ALL MUST FACE TO FINALLY FEEL FREE – NIGHT 

We are ready to climb again, to the tips of frosty fierce moments of madness, where the only hope is for us to sing tidings of gladness, 

shout good news with megaphone glee,

climb aboard our horses of justice, riding forward to voice the voiceless, anger, compassion, joy, love and surprise, all allies in the war of doing what is right,

“Doesn’t this take effort?” Said the disinclined, Express Head Man.

You can be sure that it does, just as eggs is eggs and this government is rotten to its fucking putrid core, we have to keep asking for more, more, more.

It is by design that our hearts are open and full, driven to acts of neighbourly compassion, helping the stranger bring about safety, casting off danger for those who need it most, especially those on small boats.

EXT. THE OUTSIDE SPACES – FIELDS OF HOPE – MID-AFTERNOON 

Mindfully running from the grass to the pavement, the crow overhead commentating on his progress, as he charts his footsteps to the feast of uneven ground, zone in on the crunch of the gravel, the smells and the sound, zipping along with wind in hair, hard to care about the burden we’re all forced to carry, in fact turn those worries into clouds that drift by so happy, neither joy nor sorrow, just being what they are, thoughts that drift, be anchored in the here and now, is this turn frustrating or is it serene, this too will pass, it is all clean, a fluid movement of arms cutting through air, shoulders relaxed, perpetually present, 

“Caw, Caw.”

The crow, formerly in possession of a paisley soul, calls out his name, your name is Pax, Brother, Father, Lover, Sister, Friend, your name is forever and ever amen.