There's nothing wrong, not really. There are concentric circles that are traveled by tiny beads. Sometimes the beads get into some kind of mania and build and build and they garner energy in sheaves and stack it in the barn and burn and shake in anticipation and travel across the circles to end on another circle. And it goes like this. Energy is spent, the barn is burnt and it goes on forever. Just clicking in a microcosm. Concentric circles.
There's a cricket in my window well. I never think about it while I'm fully awake. He plays his black fiddle all night long, usually in two long, histrionic strokes. The song is woven into my sleep, digested by my subconscious and brings me like a sea turtle to the surface of the water intermittenly to breath and truly hear with the part of my brain which would rather not anyway. So back I go. Play on and when I think of you during daylight hours I'll bring The End.
I'm fragmented but united. I once asked a friend if I was supposed to feel that way. He said welcome to the modern mind. I didn't get it. I didn't understand what it meant to be truly fragmented because there was literally no way to view fragments as a fragment. Fragments are incapable of anything holistic. So I spend years fumbling around with shards, with elements and fragility and shake them in a bag and read, like a fortune teller, the outcome of the shaking.
And just who do you think you are?
I couldn't say really
There was a poem building in my head but I didn't want to ruin it by writing it. I was hoping that it would come around later and I'd be in a more, lets say feasible disposition. but it most likely will not. I most likely will have foregone the assault at the door from some lithe muse and missed the beautiful irascibility held in the cup of her hands. And all because of the capacity of the structure of conscience.
small, shallow patch of liquid lying on a surface
Minutes end to end teaching only when.