Sunday, February 24, 2013

a jumble of scattered moments.

I considered myself diminutive.
I withheld my hand the way the sun skirted behind clouds.


I count days like sheep, watch how many pass before I start to nod off, before the consciousness I maintain by the struggle of my cognitive mind sinks beyond measurable ability and I succumb. I am lost, drifting, sleeping with the weeks that pass by, lending me no cause to consciousness, no momentum for movement, while the world within and without me spins with minute details I must attend to: words to right and remember, colors to craft and create, and I am sleeping.

Eternally sleeping.

Because nothing's come yet to keep me awake.

I wanted to say something.
To set myself down and spill it
Like the cat did the milk.
My trouble is this,
My trouble is specific:


Truth is my flaw.

Because what wants to flow,
What yearns to be knocked
From urns 'round my feet
Are the facts, reality, truth.

I want to be honest.

With a public forum,
I find I can't;
As ironic as this seems
When one considers the fact
I created this page
For factual musings in
Fictitious settings.

But there's the rub:
I cannot craft fiction for this.
I cannot say it with metaphor.

I cannot spell the truth
With lies.

I cannot tell you without facing
Your eyes.

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