Twinkle

Twinkle twinkle little star,
Why are you so very far?

Up above the world so high,
Well beyond our loudest cry.

Twinkle twinkle little star...

How I wonder who I am.

~ Perspective

Experiment in Absence

I took away the heat, and I became cold.
Winter is my blanket now.

I took away the pounding drums, and all was quiet.
But who's that whispering?

I took away the light, and darkness fell.
Let the games begin.

Time is inconsequential.
Absence is an unfamiliar medium.

I start to panic.
My pen starts to shake as the shivering intensifies,
and the silence starts to wear on my nerves.

In a moment of weakness I try and open my eyes.
To let the light back in, drown in it if I can.
That's when I realize...

My eyes were open already.
The night, starless, had made the choice for me.
No turning back.

And so I waited. Moments passed.
Time is inconsequential.
Reevalulation.

I took away the heat,
Winter is my blanket now.
I can feel my lungs fight to boil the midnight air.

I took away the pounding drums.
But who's that whispering?
I can hear pen scratch against pad, and my own breathing shallow.
Somewhere on owl "coo's", but I can't quite make out what he's saying.

I took away the light.
Surely, the games is on.

My fingers numb, tiredness crawls into my bones.
Surely none of this is legible now, but I will remember.
I can see the words, pages turning in my head.
I brush my fingers over the words and feel wet ink.
I had forgotten that feeling.

Absence. Absence is a funny medium.
And you know, I think I might like it.
It's a much needed start.

*Note*

I took these words exactly as they were written on the pages, or as near as I could tell anyways.

Also, a little hot cocoa goes a long way to revitalize sore cold fingers :)

Back to the heat, and the pounding drums, and the light.

I hear the owl again. Wordy little avian...

I miss you all.

~ Perspective

Words like violence.

Drifting, swiftly.... wandering through infinity.

My mind tries to breach the pollution of life, but sanctuary, I fear, is a forgotten place.

No thought is pure, every synapse fired by an alien source.

Words like violence,
notes bearing knives...

I wonder how anyone could hope to have an original thought in such a stimulation-driven world.

If ever there was a time to envy the deaf and blind, I envy you now.

For I have seen true beauty, and heard the modest music of nature... But never will I know the sound of my own thoughts congealing, and never will I see the the evolution of an idea in my own minds eyes.

Those days are done for me, unless fortuitous discovery grants me a new sanctuary.

And until such time I sing...

Words like violence.