I cant articulate my thoughts the way I used to be able to.
My brains connections have swapped from word obsessions to ambience and aesthetic obsession,
Certain patterns and flowers and shades and tiny parts of really large scale beautiful things.
My brain is no longer the same wordsmith,
Forge raging night and day as with each disruptive bang he straightens red hot words into sentences with which to turn to blades to rend his foes and cut his binds,
Now he is a word weaver,
One who sits silently at times, piddling with the different threads in frustration,
And at times feeling the path the words would like to be drawn down and around each other, forming pictures from the fragments with the dreamlike ease similar that of a stingray gliding across a glittering moonlit seabed in search of treasure he dropped while chasing the moon.
But words,
No matter the arrangement arranger or arrangement process,
Can fall short of the pure raw power to make someone feel the way a sunset can or the glistening blur of running water.