I believe a man is his best when he has full leverage over another and is the most humble, caring, and sincere that he’s ever been; happily and comfortably becoming the servant. And I believe a man is at his worst when he has full leverage and uses this unfortunate power to manipulate, control, and deface. That’s the true test of character. At the end of the day we all own our choices. The sun will go down, the sky will drip again, and we all have our very own mirror waiting for us.
My thoughts are tied into a bundle of hands holding cries that never mattered because I don’t know them. She stepped into a puddle. The water was mixed with fine particles of dust; the leaves fell so nicely from the sky she wanted everything about them, while the sun kept repeating that the puddle was there.
A child screams but no one does a thing besides scream back to grow up. Patience is a virtue unless you’re an adult who wishes it upon a child to be just, like, them,. eventually the child becomes a young person remembering having screamed with hurt. But this child won’t be the same. This child will be the one adult to not ignore the screaming. And the hills walk on without looking down, so they say.
I play tricks with leaves outside my window. I trick them into being what I want them to be and when they’ve finally made me realize they’ll only be what they are I see them turn over for the wind- While I climb into myself looking for the same things I’ve always looked for. At times I find what I’m looking for and promise to remember, but I forget and need to start all over again with new leaves, on new days with sun pouring, or rain landing outside on the dirt below- I can stand here by myself, or I can fly outside with all of them, as long as I at least look out the window and trick myself into something I can be.
Laugh on brittle stick. Leaves puddle themselves with veins. We step on both of you without knowing which will snap first. A boy walks alone scrapping his knees on thought. He finds a mushroom with an additional head. ‘Can’t you think twice as much as the others?’ He stomped the mushroom, smearing life from the bottom of his boot to mud. ‘That wasn’t the way to know.’ A frog reported. ‘That wasn’t it at all.’ The boy looked toward the frog, ‘What do you mean?’ ‘A shameful look is what you’ll now wear, that mushroom just had a child. Alone. The mushroom grew another form to represent both sides, even though one had gone, and now you’ve not only removed that mold you’ve removed both. The child is more alone now than before it had been given the gift of life.’
It’s time to let sit what sits and watch. Memories comb our nerves while our sitting becomes lack thereof. A someone views a chair that moves at will upon two legs. They think about how eleven is only two lines standing next to one another, yet no one seems to notice. So they allow the chair to continue on. The chair is searching for a name while the walk of confidence has not ended.
Footsteps. A bitterness of breath. Pinned in the corner of the bed. Pillows on top. ruffle covers. You weren’t there. never were. heartbeat quickened and slowed with reality knowing from life- heart is strongest when abandoned by reason and left alone. The darkness wasn’t so bad. it wasn’t so bad when the sun was out and the fish were biting. Unless the bees swarmed and landed on you. It was easy to lose your fishing rod that way. It was a beautiful summer day where the sun seemed to create a humming sound which started in the ground and made its way to your ears. When you didn’t think of it, it was still there. still there. still there.
I need books to destroy myself and come back again. The boy walked along the brook. Trees were there. Wanting to know about books. His book held his hand and didn’t think at all. Aren’t we nicely composed and nicely alive enough to slice ourselves a thought or more. The boy wished he knew who could be a thought. Could I be a thought? It’s nice walking with brooks.
I shattered my favorite mirror so I could have thousands of lives. Life is. A switchback. A laughing mirror. Happy Birthday mirror. Seconds count even when unseen. Curtains finally pulled back; exhaling fulfillment, expanding best thoughts even under distress, stopping only when I’ve given permission to have stopped. I’ll never be done.
He paddled his canoe along the riverbank. Up the banking to his right a corn field stretched for hundreds of yards. To his left woods ranged for miles sloping up into the mountain. He paddled in the middle of it all watching the wind touch the water. He liked to look at the sandy bottom as he glided over. If he used his shadow he could see the river bottom clearly. He could even see individual grains of sand. He wondered if anyone had ever seen the particular grain of sand that he was looking at now. There wouldn’t be enough time in any universe to prove if it had, he thought. “Remember your first thought. Now remember before that. Think of time as a flat surface already containing the past and future without an ending. Now place a mirror above and below. This is nothing but imagination. Remove my voice, I’m already unseen. Now it is yours. Is it real?” Whispered the wind.