I stand because I cannot sit by.
I cannot stand to watch what I look at.
I watch and cannot see what is really there.
See?
I stare at my fantasy without reality. Events unfold and stories told, through
characters merely imagined, to keep that part of me from wintering through everyday
of my life, like a single dried-up and curled-in leaf still attached to a nearly empty tree.
Feel?
That cold creeping closer and in as age frosts my rough-hewn surface, an exterior not
even my mother could love, anymore, anymore. The veins and arteries act as they have
been treated, neglected and broken down, they leak and it is more than, just slightly salty water,
drip, drip...drip.
Hear?
Am I listening to life around me, those voices are more than noises and sounds, they are filled with
words, which echo and rebound that taste of meanings that I must really take care to understand. It is
not all about me, as I am not talking about the voices, the all-important voices, in my head.
Taste? Smell?
Oh Comfort, to find comfort from with-in rather than with-out, when none other will, fill that palate we all share and the air we all share, that I breathe. My blindness has a cure, my insensitivity can be repaired, and my hearing could pass any test, but I must get past the stench of my selfish failures and the textured memories of the stale-dated repast.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 1:46 AM UTC
I stand because I cannot sit by.
I cannot stand to watch what I look at.
I watch and cannot see what is really there.
See?
I stare at my fantasy without reality. Events unfold and stories told, through
characters merely imagined, to keep that part of me from wintering through everyday
of my life, like a single dried-up and curled-in leaf still attached to a nearly empty tree.
Feel?
That cold creeping closer and in as age frosts my rough-hewn surface, an exterior not
even my mother could love, anymore, anymore. The veins and arteries act as they have
been treated, neglected and broken down, they leak and it is more than, just slightly salty water,
drip, drip...drip.
Hear?
Am I listening to life around me, those voices are more than noises and sounds, they are filled with
words, which echo and rebound that taste of meanings that I must really take care to understand. It is
not all about me, as I am not talking about the voices, the all-important voices, in my head.
Taste? Smell?
Oh Comfort, to find comfort from with-in rather than with-out, when none other will, fill that palate we all share and the air we all share, that I breathe. My blindness has a cure, my insensitivity can be repaired, and my hearing could pass any test, but I must get past the stench of my selfish failures and the textured memories of the stale-dated repast.
This is about the lethargy. It may seem harsh to some.
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