Thursday, 26 August 2010
You cannot allow the mind to stop, it has to go somewhere
And whereever it goes is whenever you are going to know
As if as if you could
You can’t you can’t know the kind mind and iit’s infinite misspelled it’ses
And everything is a brilliant different color of the same thing
We are muck and grime and beautiful flowers and flames that open and
And stop for seconds but don’t stop for more than a few
And if I was stupid enough
I’d probably be smart
But I don’t just don’t just can’t just get it together and I
Do it to myself
And I am a collection of random things and that collection of random things
Is sometimes stoned and really usually all of the time high
At least in this state of mind, that one this one that you are reading and sometimes seeing
And I talk in absolutes
And I am absolutely positively uncertain of absolutely maybe everything
But all I can think about is nothing
But then nothing becomes the realization of everything
And my mind cli i i i icks
And sometimes I say clikZ and I’m cool
But most of the time I’m not
Did you see when it snowed last winter,
And while I was walking home I thought I might’ve been in massachusettes
And my ID would probably already be horizontal, and I wouldn’t know you like I do now
And what if this is a rant or just a few letters that might
Sound good if I use all of the stupid extra unreal extra-terrestrial and by that I mean other than the structureofthewordsoftheneverendingsentencess
The mind hits a block and you worry if you’ve fallen over. Are you there typing? Am I here reading this? Is the page mine or yours, or mine? Have we fallen together and maybe I am the page. And maybe all the and maybes in the world won’t stop us from eventually crashing together in an under-lying theme of absurdity.
What if I’m stuck here, on this page, getting better, simpler. But is each of those a breath?
Do you want to know me when I’m older? I don’t. I want to know you for the rest of your life, and I also wish that I’d known you when I was younger, and you were younger. But I don’t want to know me when I’m older. I don’t trust my mind to age with grace. It feels frayed enough, and I’ve heard that sanity is best built on a solid foundation. But I want you to know me when I’m older, so that I can know you when you’re older too.
And I can think so much of myself, but most of the time I’m thinking of you.
And is this a love letter? Can a letter be in love?
Can I be in love with you? Still? Or is it too early? Or what if it is beautiful, love? And why has that become a question?