heat the rain
The trick or freedom
that brings pain
In July, the wind still whispers
Secrets keeping, hidden, shiver
laced up love
on every ray
warmed by yellow
A sea of white, green and heat
miserable, happiness scorching feet
June bugs hum and I am still
words painted on my windowsill
My whimsy, watercolor, brain at will
Inhale. Exhale. I’ve got my fill
I’ve had a hard time figuring out what to write about of late. But whenever someone else tells me they don’t know or don’t have anything to write about I always tell them to write about just that. Being less than inspired. So I guess I’d be some sort of hypocrite if I didn’t do the same.
I think about sometimes how we think in shortcuts. How if someone were to listen to our thoughts they would probably have no idea what we were talking about. Because the things that relate in your own head as you think jump from one subject to another faster than the words that reminded you of the thing can even come out of my mouth fully, don’t have any reason to relate in my own head. Think about it. Say your’e listening to a song on the radio and it makes you think of a certain other time you were listening to that same song on the radio with a different person. Then that situation makes you think of a different thing and so on. If an outsider was listening in on your thoughts, all the thought jumps your’e doing in those split seconds where you can see what links the two together, the outsider couldn’t even see why you started thinking about last summer (or whatever) to begin with. We think in fast shortcuts. And yes, I think about this when I’m talking to you and responding to what you’re saying. And yes, I am paying attention. It’s just that when you really pay attention to what is in your head you start to realize how reactionary your thoughts are and how incredibly faster they are than what’s around you…for the most part. I hope this all makes sense, I thought of it in about two minutes but it took me 15 to type it all and figure out how to say it. Case & point.
This is a real moth
We are moving this weekend. Everything is in boxes, or being put in boxes. We pick up our lives and we go. I’t escapes me why, as humans, do that. We gather all these things we don’t need that mean something to us, and then after sitting it in a man made box for a while we pick it up and take it somewhere else. I guess my only profound thought on the subject is that I do not get it. It feels animal and yet only humans would do it. And fish. Fish swim up stream, but they don’t have suitcases.