Thoughs whirl.
They writhe and rest,
float and sink,
shout and whisper,
coalesce
and
dissolve.
The constant and deafening cacophony of thought,
deep and wide and long,
stretches to the horizon and beyond,
Seemingly endless.
I shudder at the thought of thought sometimes,
memories meeting ideas,
but I'm deafened by the constant white noise
of its gently frothing waves.
It's beyond me, as they should be.
This ocean is serene
and the parts indiscernible from the whole.
I can sit at the shore safely if I dont wade in.
I may simply view
whatever might float to the surface.
They lap at the edges of my consciousness,
Tingle against the anterior of my skull,
But,
Thankfully,
Remain incomprehensible in their awful entirety.
It is only when my ocean
of memories and ideas organize that I need be afraid,
for I can comprehend a patern.
It is only when the gentle lapping becomes a treacherous bombora,
crashing against white cliffs,
That I am struck with their crippling ripples of anxiety,
because I begin to understand their enormity.
When
thoughts
writhe,
float,
shout
and coalesce,
They slam into me,
Eroding my delicate posture.
I am
unzipped,
unbuttoned,
unlaced,
in ribbons strewn across the bed.
I become undone,
at my own mercy.
Another one makes it's way yo the surface.
Perhaps this will be a calming memory?
No,
it's my own
grasping
hand.
I grab my ankles as I flee
the oncoming tide,
and drag myself into the depths.
I sink,
clutching myself,
struggling
to escape myself.
I can feel myself begin to weaken and descend,
my cries muffled and my flesh diffusing in my own malefactory clutches as I gnaw at my spine visciously.
I pity me as I mercilessly tear into myself at my own digression.
Battering myself into submission
and eating away at my delicate chassis;
I leave a pitiful puddle to sink into my sheets.
Yes I do mean digression, not discretion.