We had a hard time today with the trigger and the mongering looking like a door in the way of nothing yet sitting not still in our minds while we drove: snow looks different when you kill it- nothing looks so very much like exactly how they are- do we think It did that on purpose? It’s most likely It was all about not we, and how It puts It’s shoes on while forgetting.
My treehouse with a thumb talks with an image less than itself. It mesmerizes mischief with Mayhem, like a tree watching its own growth on a ledge. Waterfall below. Thoughts in between. Taking longer than expected, the zipper of life made for a humble tremble.
I know how I am, said the rock, as it listened to the sun every day. The moon too had words. The rain, the wind, the time. I know who I am. Said the rock. As it slowly slid toward the stream. The water waiting to engulf and drown the visions of tomorrow from a wayward version of today. I know who I am, said the rock as it was picked up by a young boy during the middle of the day. It was cloudy, with little much of anything to see in the way of rays, and the boy took the rock inside his home and inside his bedroom and inside his heart and mind. The rock was placed just above the boy’s head. A nook. Of mind and soul. And the rock found the he hadn’t known himself well at all, really. Not at all.
And the levity of one example brought on the harm of another while watching stars, listening to ‘mind’, and fingers reading pages and pages and dusty pages turning to new pages smelling of ink while staring at a bar room wall with all sounds bouncing from ear to ear, some listening to this, some not, the bar pushes further, mouths drink and pages turn; lives of another might be yours someday, as she watches from the other side.
It was a different version of today without tomorrow, yesterday was gone too. Leaving a something option. “Gravity,” he said, “is used in ways we don’t understand; holding and un-holding themselves exactly where they want to be while everything else moves.” To conceal is to prove a whisper can turn to life. The holding of time isn’t a hand.
Into which we point a view and ask others to follow while the cat strings a tail and twists a mind to follow. A tear falls from the droplets of itself and purrs into a smile. “Isn’t this what you want?” She walks away, with legs that you remember, and with it your memory.
There’s a reason whiskey exists and why the songs that we love stick. Stopped for a turtle once. It was in the middle of the road. Near railroad tracks. I got out, walked toward it and noticed a few things. Walking toward it was a bad idea. Didn’t like me at all, though I was trying to save its life. Turtle didn’t care. I drove away smelling the summer air knowing I’d never forget.
We were trying to get there so we were there, and nothing was found. No wind. No noise. Nothing to smell and nothing to see. The digging for- found absence. Even the worms were away, also looking; for us to be found with thoughts free enough to live again.