Apr 2014
4/13/14
It must be Winter. The sound of the insect orchestra is nonexistent. I sit upon a roof top watching chimneys lazily hack up their smoke. There is no season with greater beauty. Above me is a full moon. There is no object of greater beauty. I feel alive here on the roof, but I'm not sure if that feeling is correct. How does one feel alive without knowing how to feel dead? Is this something I test or wait to find out? If I'm dead, why do I desire nothing more than a loving hug? If I'm alive, why don't I feel so repulsive anymore? Answers can only be bought with time, and I'm not so sure how much of that I have left on loan. The sun will come soon leaving nothing but a shade of myself, a cackling mad man. And I remain with nothing but lonesome. The two of us are no longer on speaking terms inside or outside of my mind.
It must be Winter. The sound of the insect orchestra is nonexistent. I sit upon a roof top watching chimneys lazily hack up their smoke. There is no season with greater beauty. Above me is a full moon. There is no object of greater beauty. I feel alive here on the roof, but I'm not sure if that feeling is correct. How does one feel alive without knowing how to feel dead? Is this something I test or wait to find out? If I'm dead, why do I desire nothing more than a loving hug? If I'm alive, why don't I feel so repulsive anymore? Answers can only be bought with time, and I'm not so sure how much of that I have left on loan. The sun will come soon leaving nothing but a shade of myself, a cackling mad man. And I remain with nothing but lonesome. The two of us are no longer on speaking terms inside or outside of my mind.
