Here I lie in wake, alone to my thoughts--centered attention on nothingness for so long that it emerges with a startling gasp that stirs the calm waters, that breaks the crippling silence, that disarms my presumptions, that startles the birds from their peace in wing and gives movement to flight in the cold dark out beyond my shortsightedness of the here and now.
A ripple--that's all it was--that prompted my upward condition and seized my focus.
Subtle enough, yet I could not mistake it as London could not pass through a single sweet cool night without a shaky blast off in the distance that likewise stirred the children from their innocent dreams as I have strayed from my ever present seams and still now...
My meaningless nothing may faulter at the so vastly more important everythingness around me; yet only my perception of these little ripple kisses that stir my soul and give rise to new movement and dance upon this elliptical routine that puzzles me in brick by bricked and stone by ****** can surely pave the path to tomorrow's promise of the again and the trials of what if in such again.
Perhaps no other than I could decipher the value of these thoughts; the merit they hold on my person; and the uselessness they possess on yours.
But that's fine with me...for expression left unexpressed, thoughts left unthought, refractive pulses left unreflected...these play things forgotten in a misspent youth dwindling in the pool of memory and the pull of forgotten woe, surely are worse than the best nightmare on the darkest, most desolate night of lonely sailing in those powerful little ripples that crash on my seawalls and smooth out my wayward projections.
I may push back. I may fight the waves, as futilely as an effort I know it to be. Or I may just accept this future as sure of a past it will ever already be...let that undertow carry me out to sea and swim with the birds and fly with the fish as the Sun whispered he intended for me.
But I may just come right back up again, as breathless and weak as I did before and surely shall again (remaining). For with every breath I surface to obtain, the effort for relief stirs new pains of concentration that only a breathless living may disarm to my liking.
I may not think clearly then and than so more, but my effort to keep my thoughts straight spills attempts out across the floor, and with each further step I further my chances of a clear tower of perceptive accomplishment to stand atop and gaze. Mind my incongruitous follies and shame my liking the name. Am I, I am, the confused and forebane.
Perhaps now, I've infected you? Confused, aren't we? And confused we shall remain. For nothing is so utterly disarming as the mixing of thoughts with no filter to gain. As this ground falls out from under you, just remember the rule for walking: one foot in front of the other for too long and you find yourself right back where you began.
Pick a new direction to gone...I'll meet you there some day, maybe.
Sometimes, nonsense is the only clear anvil to forge my shapely manifestation upon.
