Feel like I should be playing a
piano every time I begin to blog. Every word I speak opens my wingspan, hollows
me, just a little more, so I can reset my life, scouring for answers in the
rubble of my interior.
Observing
the world today with a calibrated need of disinterest, wafting esoterically
into someone else, some other time and place, joyfully fulfilling my romantic
tragic role in my own screenplay. Consciously aware of my nakedness in the
breeze, pausing at details in my shadow, reabsorbed by the notion of my own
body, no one knows of the thought I am drinking from. Raucous and wild,
breaking near pandemonium, recognizing a primacy to my own need, want and
desire.
An alien in the fog ponders the
wonders of life. Bartering with herself and god, turning tempest thought into
justification. Wondering if sweat left on the pavement isn't just a bit of
bleed from old wounds, a sacrificial offering as legs lean forward against her
own sea of ritual awakening. Convincing self of something so much more, as
secrets hold tight within her lips.
Don’t we all just bleed a little
from other people’s wounds? Is that not then, the art of human caring?
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