If I could

If I could decent the darkest ocean, be in of all things there, I would welcome the deepest thoughts of obscurity beyond all that bothers me here. If I could be all but a sound amongst any morning songbird, be in all them here, I would welcome centre thoughts of Saturns rings, beyond all that likens me here. If I could circum little things, be in of all debted here, I would welcome unto being who I am. If I could fathom purpose, be in of all given here, I would welcome rewarding thoughts and grow bountifully. Against nature all comes up dry, lost of color, searchless, still and amongst inevitably all of everything. Against nature all comes up full, having of light, searching, about and amongst deserving of everything. Against nature all comes up reaching, gainful of identity, served, indelibly as everything. Against nature all comes up inadequate, said of life, sinful, without from as all things are now.

As it should have been.

Today, I am not well, I am like water in the desert, consumed and hiding, clear and shallow, but honestly weak, an angry fire without enough grass to burn. I need so much what should have been, it is all that can cure me, it is all that can make me one person with my true self, as I was before. Tonight, I want to dream, as it should have been.

In this cold place.

We have summer in this cold place and will have summer long enough, I believe this now. I live so very high up on the top floor of a building that follows the sun from window to window. I would often dream about having a travel trailer. I would follow the sun, staying just on approach of the melt. I would slow down if I saw the fall and speed up if I got caught, long in spring. I would pray for snow everyday, large, sloppy snowflakes and watch from a huge, lazy stay in front a wide grin, of course. I could fall in and out of sleep all day, my biggest struggle would be to finish reading Victoria and Veranda magazines. I love vintage cloth, berry jam scones, with pastel Peonies dropping sugared petals by the tray. Little mouthed, fat bottomed bottles of ink and dripping, dipping styles to write on old parchment rolls. I would like that place.

What makes us alone?

What makes us alone? I don`t mean, alone sometimes, but alone all the time? Why are some people always alone? What kind of alone? Well, the ones who are loners, who have friends that are only co-workers, penpals, newsgroupers. Seniors, the old forgotten ones or just second to their children's busy lives. The disfigured, the homeless, the freakish or just the extreames (no legs, retardation, lunatics, them people etc). The depressed or those that just want to be alone or them that just do not know why. What sorts of defenses do these unapproachable behold? Are they so strange looking or just uglificatting? No one would want to leave themselves open to hurt them, or not having to hurt them, or to witness a response from someone who, never responds, so it would be a safe assumption to, just not start anything with a shronic loner. You are the witness, having seen us. Seeing us is in some strange way, seeing your(self).