soft detachments

the captain is the conscious; the crewmen, the subconscious. sometimes the crewmen don't obey the captain. and your mind (the ship) is out at sea, drifting along as usual.

--

silence is soft when touched, at least in this area of the woods, this nightwalk by the ocean; a cloth draped as light silk streams from the sky. others peer through, and their eyes happen on you, but they don't see you. everyone holds a dark flower inside in obscurity.

it has become quite apparent - it is apparent - (why chain this way, drawing it out, vs brevity? there must be a reason, some information theoretic urging the mind inclines) that this budding plant has roots drawing water from a different river, not this gamely one that your peers seep from. absorb alone, as usual: the melodies speak.

--

to draw out tense and use language that supplants I and You for disembodied entities, ghost replicas, cracked mirrors that cast zis projection onto those walls. Zi need a new tense to express these detachments; perhaps prefix with Z?

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the g# minor scale makes me think of a green frog leaping from e to g. synaesthetic tingling like this carves out an abode in this mind there, a niche to sleep in, on occasion awakening to bounce off the walls and stir a boiling broth. maybe play with a toy shotgun to shoot at mundane thoughts

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quiet and driven. eras of your life, pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. we piece them together with passing hours and tastes of days, snapping our fingers to the rhythm of muses and treading water to the poseidic waves, streaming thoughts rolling over pebble-crumbled skittles, sand sprinkled amid a fresh spring scent in our nostrils, casting pi-light alight in grisly walls glazed with petal honey. bursts of flavor stream air through the calm caverns of your mind as nutrients replenish the charred paths; the stream whittles away the brook bend, carving out meanders as we grow up. what next era of life awaits? what unthinkable transformation will come next?

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the poor lady who walked by: I'm so sorry. the pain isn't from lack of food; it's lack of prospect. lack of respect, even, in a deceitful world: 'if you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken / twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools...'

--

the fire inside does not burn from

lighter fluid dripping from your spirit; 

hydrocarbons bond from the tossing of words when we meet, and explosions of ideas in our exchanges; and that is what stirs the boiling pot, lights the crevices under the doors we consider, snaps sparks on bomb cords; melds inspiration with activity. to meet with you is quite necessary, then.

how nice it would be to dive on a whim deeply into some vast expanse and to thrash about the waters and sink into the sand with no restrictions on time - only the vast energy bursting, plunging you deeper as the earth's crust thins and you melt to join it, plumbing its depths with curiosity