some places I have faded, in others I might be brighter than I know. What world is this where one knows nothing of the truth; locked in a single perspective, a limited, the most limited, view of ourselves. Who am I, that no one can never fully know, no matter how I wish it, nor how much I run from the grade.
I feel as though the climbing hours,
Sheltered princesses in tall towers,
A general vision of confusion and scene,
Little amongst clutter unclean,
Bring about sorry chaste, and dream,
Telling all who wish and seem
To fly at words, or run from quiet,
All thoughts amok in soft riot.
As the turning of Earth brings tomorrow's red hope,
The sun signs its presence in a changing slope,
Once on the line, one hope did try,
As it passed to oblivion, no one would cry
"Foul."
Take the word for its meaning, not its flair.
On Xmas of 1992 my brother gave me this journal made of recycled paper with a twig pencil. I eventually filled it up sporadically up to 1995. I dug it out, dusted it off, and started looking through it today, May 6th, 2013. I've decided to reproduce the posts online. It's raw and sure to be embarrassing, but I feel enough time has passed that I can distance myself, yet find a very familiar me within these lines and perhaps find the inspiration to take up the pen again..... Thanks, big Bro.
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