Untitled Thoughts

Sometimes I wonder about myself and how I am the way I am and how life is the way it is and how everything just is and was and probably will be or even never be.

I think,

How sometimes I get into a total screaming-inside kind of mess and how I get out of it and how that's really how life is and how I manage life at all and how I get through it.

There's a lot of hows.

And then,

There's how I am with this person and that and how it all works and how the world works with it and how the world might be without it and there's more hows for you.

And again and again,

The whys of the hows and the hows of the whys and such strange things that go on around me that feel like I don't know what's going on but really everyone has to go through them too and isn't that interesting.

My mind does wander from the clickety-clack of typing to the hard skin of my feet and the sounds of the air-con and the sound of silence which is also the sound of night and not just the sound but also the smells like the smell of before during after the rain the smell of tap water the personal smell I associate with someone and not just the smell but the taste of blood how metallic it is from cracked dry lips and the taste of other things how it is with me because of how I think of them and not just the taste but also the feel of plastic keys the feel of skin the feel of cold and more than the feel and smell and taste and sound more than all these is the sight and how the light falls just so and the shadow of a hand or any object really and how everything can be so ugly or so beautiful and in the end.

How it all goes together.

And the source of the inspiration is not just external stimuli oh no it is of the heart and the soul which yearns to write it is the passion which springs from within it is all of these and more which trigger the urge to just write and write and write and write and write and never

stop.

How everything seems to fall in place but in reality things don't work that way.

How in the quiet of the night

things

just come to mind.

And how I can put me inside something to get something else and take me out of something and get yet another thing.

And so many other random things that just flow and flow without ebbing this unending stream of emotions and words that just

COME.

And they never go away until your fingers at the keys are exhausted and your mind is finally empty and your heart is placid and still.

And then the sorrow comes, when the joy of writing diminishes and fades

till next time,

when the muse comes again in the middle of the night.


























And how strange it is.

Just when I think I am done there seems to be more and more and more to say and then I just

forget.

All of it.

And the window closes and opens and closes and opens and things go in and out and time passes like it always does never stopping and there is always

always

something to say.

Even when I need to leave when my head is addled and tired there is still so much to express that is crying out be written!

And we, we who were cast out among the ashes, cry out and hope for salvation.