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.
I like straight forward curvatures in mud. I’m from mud, I say, when asked indifferently. I’m from mud and cow pastures and tall green ferns growing on the banks of the friendly gurgling brook with the trout hiding in the deepest pools under the roots of a hovering pine; casting a shadow is a harboring act of courage when having wellness in mind. for others. and more others.
A disabled tomorrow shook our heads. “Look at me!” Screaming while fading so willingly against us to soak everything we are within a glass containing self to sip viciously until complete; every day walking in the cornfields listening to wind scrape our minds and touch our boots we claim we never knew and we never knew.
How much of a memory do you take without yourself.
Small amounts of something came with the boy as he walked alone on the road.
Can this road be the road we’ve been given or the road we have. Maybe it doesn’t much matter as long as the sun rises and shines without you noticing. Forgive this screeching silence. It’ll bother you again.
7.53 billion of us. At the end of 2017. There’s a small graph on google showing a steady increase of our populating this planet. We chew things, walk, or not, and sometimes are nice to one another. Other times we war. Internally, literally, then with family, and of course there’s always D-Day as an example. Micro-Macro. Care to jump on a breeze and float down a nothing? I’m slightly sure. A piece of my morning went exactly as I hoped it might which almost always never happens. But, it did, so I’ll wait to see what else takes place and while living I’ll do my best to remember I’m but a very small thing on this very large rock floating around in a much larger ‘piece-of-space.’ And I can’t help but wonder, do many of us ever stop looking at our shoes?
I walked on a face today. It was my own. The concrete cherries fished away again and lost my vision for another. The trees were so pretty when they ignored me. Eventually I found a further way. Might I come this way again seeing the eyes that carry the dark and might I carry the dark back. I already own my own. -M. Taggart
It’s all fine. Until it’s not. Although, from a child’s point of view it’s possibly only about sticks and stones and how far will this jump take them over the brook. Landing midway, a smile breaks out from underneath the learned hardness, as if the smile were welcoming themselves home again. This is you. With the water streaming around your small legs, yet to grow into adulthood because this is you; a child wearing a smile standing in a brook after having jumped directly into the middle without a care. And all of the trees waved in the wind.
Read more Odd Walking Thoughts here:
Clean writing feels like sleep. Eventually a reason to wake happens and we’re still thinking of the dream which hated us, or loved and still smell on our lips; not all dreams end when we’re awake as we pull them with us without permission into the daytime life we live, and around the mouths we currently know. Maybe it’s best to find the full moon and not sleep. Maybe it’s best to stand in the cold stream skipping rocks and counting, alone, guided by nothing but ringlets which all drift away from their center. Or, maybe it’s best to wake and write the best we can without hesitation.
A twisted scribble stood from its page. Straightening itself halfway while leaving the rest, still wanting to be original. “Hush,” said the paper, “you’ll awaken the observation of the mind.” “This is fine. The mind created me.” Replied the scribble.
There are only so many windowsills we can chew on while waiting for our fathers and mothers to care about us. Walk a mile into the woods and find where the leaves placed themselves for us to turn over. -Walk back to the same sill twenty-five years later and ask yourself if you’d rather care about who you wanted to care about you, or if you’d like to again walk a mile into the woods to find a few more leaves.