Almost went out that door, for no good reason but a slim hope that might pan out of existence; just drop away in the muffled conglomeration of odd visions, dreams, and fancies that bare this frame out one night and into the next day. After so long without understanding, without any sense of the justice of this existence, one is forced to confront that darkest of terrors, the beast of nothing, of uninformed chaos. It's a circular tube with only one end open; look inside and see the finite of the reason, see that it extends only so far; That, too, it shows only one side. The inside.
Clustered forms of white aloft,
a fleshy existence, and soft,
they break apart the day,
into segmented blue, God, and grey.
Once their was a bird clinging to this bough,
during one hard gust of wind,
isn't it odd that none is here now,
when the shapes have opened.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment