The sky is blue and the clouds are white but I still feel something is wrong. The earth is still turning, the sun is still shining and I actually slept well. My life has been such a whirlwind. Maybe I need to do more of that sleep thing. Still not sure how to do that though. This sick feeling needs to go away and leave me in peace. Peace of mind, Peace of heart, and peace of stomach.
Whirling and twirling makes me hurling
The fire is a nice hot feeling in the cold. I wonder how the fire feels? Warm breeze, warm please. Cooling touch, chicken hutch.
Tired and sleep are they the same thing? They both end up asleep with their eyes squeezed shut. I squeeze my eyes when fear closes them. Is it the fear of sleep or the fear of no control? I wonder as the dark closes in. Fear of sleep equals fear of everything.
I wonder what it is in the dark that people most fear? Is it the dark itself or the fear of fear that chases our dreams? The dreams I have could chase you to screams. I wonder if we control our dreams or the dream master. That is the thought that many are afraid of. To be afraid is to be human. I wish not to be human and have no fear.
Fear of fear is fearful in itself.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The silence in our words
Why do we write when we can talk? Why do we talk when one can write? Does writing fulfill a need to speak? Do people speak too much? For some reason there are people who, unlike some others, can do nothing but speak. They speak what is on their minds and in their hearts. Why I ask can I not express what is in my mind. It is hard to form the words that would release the pressure on my heart. I write the words but they don't tell the story that I want them to tell. The words write themselves. Those words write me.
The secret words that want to be written come out spelled differently. They do not obey me.
Do these words that people write, do they express their needs? These artist, these authors do they not hide themselves in their words? Oh if the world were filled with just words and not talk could we then express our hearts?
I wonder what these words would say if I could let them spell themselves. And why can you not stop saying what is in your heart and let me express myself the way I want?
The black ink so elegantly scrawls itself on the white innocent page. The devil itself takes hold and destroys any hope of purity. The ink, the sin. Oh thou vanquished soul how hast thou left this world for a castle in the sky?
The words I want they laugh at me. Well here is what I think of you.
What are words if we do not write them? Is there an answer? And do I just answer my questions with more questions? These are just words that strung together may or may not form a sentence and in the end of life what do these sentences form? If we but form ourselves like these sentences we may as well just speak what is in our minds. Our circle has come, the end is near. What have we learned but what we wrote. We write what we cannot say. We say what we cannot write. But the words don't form on our lips. In the end we write our hearts on a page disguised by the black of the ink and the white of the page. In the end we just write our stories and deal with the silence.
The secret words that want to be written come out spelled differently. They do not obey me.
Do these words that people write, do they express their needs? These artist, these authors do they not hide themselves in their words? Oh if the world were filled with just words and not talk could we then express our hearts?
I wonder what these words would say if I could let them spell themselves. And why can you not stop saying what is in your heart and let me express myself the way I want?
The black ink so elegantly scrawls itself on the white innocent page. The devil itself takes hold and destroys any hope of purity. The ink, the sin. Oh thou vanquished soul how hast thou left this world for a castle in the sky?
The words I want they laugh at me. Well here is what I think of you.
What are words if we do not write them? Is there an answer? And do I just answer my questions with more questions? These are just words that strung together may or may not form a sentence and in the end of life what do these sentences form? If we but form ourselves like these sentences we may as well just speak what is in our minds. Our circle has come, the end is near. What have we learned but what we wrote. We write what we cannot say. We say what we cannot write. But the words don't form on our lips. In the end we write our hearts on a page disguised by the black of the ink and the white of the page. In the end we just write our stories and deal with the silence.
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