sono.tino

these are the words and photos that depict the world in which we live.


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The dirt falls from my fingers,

Because I spend my days toiling in the fields. It’s back breaking, thankless, and the least likely thing to deliver happiness in this curt life we lead. My muck boots may have fine laces, but they are still made from heifer leather. My sleeves still roll when the going gets tough, though the cuff may be French and initialed. Our backs pain together, arched over our handheld technologies. The steel is either hand-ground for an edge or polished to a shine. The tool is our cross roads between working harder or smarter, where grunt meets hmmm. This has become the most opportune moment to sit back and strategize. A bonobian brow is raised and a chimp’s fist comes down with a thud. This is a moment of evolution, something that uniquely sets us apart from those who came before. Though the action may be small for one human, it is but a leap for humankind. This is why those with the weight of the world on their shoulders seem to have the strength of an army and the vision of an oracle. Divinely inspired by something that is anything but…the inching forward of ACTG into another helical duet that leads to another and so on, until something is from what was not. Great contemplation has no relation to contempt, because creativity is the photon packet of man that no shallow dish of human emotion can refract or distort. When the flash of brilliance passes like a solar flare, our noses return to the laws of gravity and we return to what we were doing before the nano-stretching of the fabric of life made us step outside of ourselves. Then we take comfort in the dirt again, so familiar, so grounding, so now.

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