Seeing Work Not Finished

Seeing work not finished, just collected
And my motor skills reluctantly continue
Scrolling through words as memories,
Parking and driving and sitting and laying
And talking and working and being a being.

Songs Of Old

And memories, they keep coming when that’s all you have
Or all you care about– so easily picked, harder to remember what led to them being your
Memories.

I can move mountains with my mind, but my eyes will only watch and my hands only dig; my lips will only move, my mouth will only dry. A peculiar situation when reality puts you in a place you’d been before but hoped was only a dream best kept sleeping.

I laugh out loud when I think of days, but blank my stare when hanging on to thoughts of nights and all their ramblings.

Just poked fun at myself
Tried to land a soft punch
But didn’t pull back at all
Meant to hold a thought
Forgot to let it go to begin with

And that’s where this story ends.

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I can see in the dark. Not by locking my eyes on an object and hoping the exposure to darkness eventually hones a new skill. No, not that ludicrous way. I can see in the dark by focusing on everything at once and acknowledging that there are subtle shades to the darkness and, therefore, bits of light from which to make objects appear against a backdrop, or shadowed on a foredrop.

Perhaps life is that same way a bit misleading. We’re told to look directly at our goals to accomplish them. Stare at until you break out. Not that I don’t believe such a scheme isn’t entirely possible, I just have lived to find my own goals a bit shadowed before they’re clear. In fact, I set such general goals that my accomplishments feel hollow until I recall where I was before. Maybe that’s my clouded mind, or a lovely way to float through life.

I derive pleasure from sounds. Those sounds that string together to create a noise track to life are so exquisitely placed– to not appreciate their beauty and synchronicity is paramount to falling without holding out your hands. The sounds are there to reel you into reality as life walks on without you, waiting for ears to open your mind back up to its surroundings.

To have pets is to have companions and, subsequently, a reason to not become insane. Paths that stay in constant symmetry of days are often given synthetic or augmented experiences to replace those feelings gained by being interrupted by other paths. Pets = paths, just as we do to them.

When I can’t see myself writing, I just write. Only fools and cowards believe in writers’ block. Real writers know you can never stop divulging your life– not for anyone. We’re the opposite of voyeurs, but the stalkers of our own lives.

Stay foolish and imitation will always ruin your gift. Be unrelenting in your approach and you will eventually build your own bypasses around/through/over others.

ember(s)

and, adrift in climb of silence’s stairs,
we hold our eyes along route of that fleeting glimpse of God’s first gift, light in darkest days.

Another Thing

You should always say what is worth saying before committing it to memory. The phrase, “committing it to memory,” can imply memory is an institution. I agree with this. My mind often knows less about relevant responses, and more about fight-or-flight.