Fragments of Thought

Endlessness lurked in the eyes of a word. 

***

It had been a long time since she last felt the grim caress of am autumn rain. There was something organic about it that transcended nonbeing, and the sense that the slow constant flow of humid lines was the writing of a story, and that we, as humans, are constantly disrupting the writing of it with our careless walk. More like standing in the way of a miracle; with our gregarious gestures, careless talks, petty talk.

***

Under his heavy pace, snow gnawed, and  turned; and winter dawned upon us once again.


***

I use others' words to resurrect the stagnant waters of the self, and as they are cast the ripples they produce are my own, a faint echo of a distant state of mind, one that failed to meet words at the right time. A tardy arrival, but still an arrival.


***


She stayed away from the world so that she could write about it.


***


She remembered those instances of the past as if they were a historic record, no emotional echo. Like one recalls a historic battle. The sight of the much expected blood shedding, a sword held out high in the air and somewhere lower in the picture frightened defensive faces.


***


There's room for time. And then there's room for silence. There's room for silence that heals, there's room for silence that regenerates.

An Itch

Everything has a departing point. Everything has its one in a blue moonness. I guess you just to choose to ignore it until one day it just hits again. And you prefer to ignore the source of the blow and continue with the flow of your life until something inside catches up with you. I hate to say it, but it does. And then you’re done: that comfortable numbness is completely done with and you wonder what is there be done with yourself? Because you'd start to sound like a character in Beckett, and to be honest with you, not much credit is being paid to a speech of the sort, outside a literary context. They sound great on paper, and then on stage too, right? But in real life, things don’t reel the same. And it’s painful to see that the same things that a constant of what should have been a cozy memory of the past is actually a feeling of the present. It’s sickening that there’s so much emotional anesthesia out there, that such offhanded “coolness” needs to be paid homage to in the cruelest of ways. But then comes the edge, if edge is what it takes. And in the throes of some edgy scene, maybe some room for suppressed emotion is made. We’re immune to the classical fairy tale scenario in so many ways, that only some earthly sad reality is emotion-awakening. Oh, when it the means reach their scope, beware of the excessive use of Kleenexes around you! The emotion is cheap, but the moment has some sort of sacredness left: if beauty doesn’t move us, then at least decay does it.

Everything has an end. And if the beginning was paid such little importance, why would the end be given a different treatment? How I came about this train of thought is of little importance to you, dear reader. It’s just a temporary itch you need to get rid of. Sometimes.