Often, I feel that I live between the moments in which I hear the sound of gravel and grit beneath my shoes.
Or the stirring silent feeling of moist earth beneath the soles of my soul.
All my thoughts in their garments -- they clamor for attention.
They clatter and cluster and craze the inner cupboards of my head.
But the trees and the wind --
if I stop for but a moment and wipe away the wimperings...
I hear sweet and solemn
the secrets of the world.
Most remain chaste in their mysteries;
they bear no qualm, yet not a reason
to speak to someone as present and passing,
so here and not yet there,
someone...so like me.
How is it that two people could dash at each other and just as quickly veer apart
like a pair of magnets, reversed upon contact?
I'd say that the feeling is unique, but it has been tried on by so many others.
The piece that has threatened to puzzle me is: how long must I wear this garment?
Will it suffocate me till it tatters to rags, and I too am ragged and old?
Or will I only wear it for special occasions --
like a painter putting on old clothes?
If I could wear you again,
would it come back fresh?
The knowledge and realization that life -- this formulated life that we are programmed to live is but a dream.
Would I stop with you again?
I am on a fast-moving train and I can't get off. If I did, my life -- as I have planned it out -- would fall to pieces. But would a new path unveil itself? A road strewn with garbage and nights slept in uncertainty, yes.
But perhaps an alternate life that I secretly want but am too afraid to accept.
But no, this will never happen.
Sometimes if you stay in one place too long, disgust begins to bloom like mold.