Weather the Wind Blows or Not

Tragically this beautiful and sunshine filled day is cooled by a persistent and pervasive wind.  Actually I kind of like it.  Out the window to my left is a scene of dynamic eloquence, the wind causes the tree limbs to flow amongst each other, none more beautifully so than the weeping willow stationed just outside the patio. Through my window the wind does blow, it brings with it the subtle and under toned breath of fresh air that I have come to know as being that of nature. Intertwined with the organic and heavenly scents of the world as it is, a faint odor of bleach lingers from my uncommon burst of cleanliness.  While unnatural and a little overpowering, it is clean, cutting, and sterile.  Nature and Bleach, allowing for a heady mix of perfection and radical dynamism, this brings a soothing salve to my compromised and trivialized soul.
Once I flowed verse and form, attempting to translate and elocute that which I conceptualize.  The results, of course, imperfect and absent the truth which I wanted for them to convey.  They were organic though.  Free form, natural and  shifting.  They were forms of incomplete characterization, never formed complete lest they suffer the loss of meaning within the pattern of uniformity.  Each facet of character provided a break in the purity and clarity of singular meaning and thought.
Then, as if a bolt in the night, I found myself schooled in the science of clarity and precision.  No word wasted on the flowing of thought to paper.  The pen makes way for the crisp sterile clatter of plastics, keys pressed in specific pattern, never slowing for four years of objective rendering.  Thoughts and mind form secondary to the obvious, logical, reality of facts in objectivity. The casual frivolity of transient word play turned to a red slash on the pristine white and black, no room for style or grace, only the precise charactered flow of raw, unshaped data.  The mind is not a tool of artistic expression, gracing the papyrus with significant and exuberant characters, but rather a vise, a mechanical tool for conveying the significant figures and perfect, precise, platonic numbers.
Enter the third age. As with all things of man or nature, time reforms and perfection is eroded into something new.  Now the words are alive again, nature flows again, and the perfect is intertwined in with the frivolity and suddenly it is new.  Like  that of bleach and wind, Nature and Sterile, words with form and style objective and explicative. Now we live again, academia ended but not forgotten, flowed and formed into the new, the better.