Ambition, to me, is not a mental construct, not a pursuit forged by the mind in determination of some arbitrary goal, some mirage formed by the time markers of our age, our body, the indistinguishable collective voice. My ambition is silent when all else roar for it, when I am told, inside out, that I need only-… a blueprint to the trajectory of fabricated success, and for what? And even if it serves that which I want, it does not come if it is forced, if it is driven by the expectation of a socially-conscious self, and I grow only darker and thicker in my slow-walking hours, dragging strained desire forward from a slumber that will not shift. But a kind of creative yearning, a light hope shimmers through evening light when I lose all thought to what must be, to how and where and who I must be. It moves imperceptibly at first, and shows itself only when, in a collapse from the frame that counts in hours and measures in words, I catch myself smiling in the mirror, not to or for anything, not filled with any thought or reason or goal, but just smiling. In those quiet, accidental spaces I sense, as one senses the sun rising even behind closed eyes, that I am closer to myself than I know, that I need only step away and let go, to find myself gathered into a breeze of churning knowing, moving, even amid this great stillness, into the waters of which I dream. What is earned is given in release, called to effortless effort, and it will go again, drift below the surface when I return to topside affairs, acknowledging the command of time. But time and I are old and strange partners, contrary and compliant, dancing when all else have retired. Time wishes nothing for me but vision, and as I fall back into shadow I mark the board upon which I work, letters to a future self, that I need only let go, let go, let go, and I will be carried.