Sent between the myth of a different time and the way in which a wool clad lad gets stiff in the climb, and I’m interested in this thing we haven’t figured out yet. And I’m about dead, in the sense that I feel numb to the universe except the couch I sit upon. How fast is this life seemingly moving? Am I just figuring out ways to get THROUGH it? Am I just trying to endure it? Is everybody just trying to get through it. Constantly rushing to places we don’t necessarily want to be? That could be the negative side of things.
There is always another side to the equation. Our collective job is to isolate the variables. What do they signify? These letters and numbers, I ask, what do they ultimately mean? I feel this creative need to reach out, to speak out, even if its only in my porch, and I have the house all to myself. I’m pretty sure that I do. I don’t believe any of the roommates are home, and I feel a bit freer, I must admit. It is like I am a fishy and I have a larger aquarium all to myself. Should I sing? Should I cry while watching a deeply moving indy flic? Should I post on my blog? Yes.
Writing to resonate with the cymbals in ears that make them clang in a good way as if to accept something instantly unequivocally. Words to heal wounds. Is it possible? Of course it is. I am the only proof I need. I have been moved by others words. Moved perhaps to stirred words of my own, but words nevertheless. And since, I have been moved by others, my words can at least potentially move some others to who knows what. What with a period after it looks like it should have a question mark. Just sayin’.
My mind desires the time to write and have it be inspired. When inspiration is lacking, so is the writing. However, I must push through the edge of this envelope. I must mail myself to the stars with the chance that they’ll white back. How long can a candle go left unattended? For it’s life if it is housed or founded by. I can’t help but have certain images roar through my head when I listen to “Someone like you”. I can’t help that I’m a romantic. Actually I can help it. I choose not to.
If I forget my roots then I cannot truly appreciate and understand the craziness that is my own recess of mind in the form of my leaves. Search that for content. It is rich. I do remember. I do project. I do live in an isolated fashion at times even though I may be calling out to the darkness. Know simply that I try to love the best I can given my circumstances, and I bare the weight of falling short everyday. I attempt to give that weight over to the Cosmos and God if he or she or they will have it. Hear my words. Forget them if you must. But, above all, be MOVED! Be present. Be aware and beware. Not a threat. Just sayin’.
I form sentences in my mind shortly, as if instantaneously, they flow through my fingers to this screen. Desiring to take the time and send a hand written letter across the country. However the hand written letter carries with it the weight that the medium now possesses. It is so much easier and convenient to post to a blog, send an email, send a txt, send a comment on facebook, etc. than it is to sit at a desk and try to think of something weighty enough in my life to write about. Perhaps that is exactly the issue. My life all-too-often feels as if I am simply enduring it. There is always a glimmer of that spark. However somedays I feel as if my spark may have run out and that I have already peaked in every way. That thought scares the hell out of me! I can’t accept the idea that I have apexed across the board, and yet I find myself lazily wasting away on my free time which isn’t much between work time, trying to sleep time, and trying to cultivate a formiddable relationship.
It is like I’m waiting for my movie moment. That knowledge in the moment that it is in fact my moment. An opportunity of a lifetime of worldwide implications. This is all I have. I give it to you now. Some where in it is a poem. An unfolding life. A positioned witness to many cloisters of life. Sick in the wave. Wanting to hang in for the ride.