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.