Plodding upon a keyboard in hopes of nothing at all; rather only to see each word find a place from my mind to a space where only my eyes see them as they are.
As a person I have to remind myself that I am one. A person, pure and simple. Made of flesh and bone, wrapped in tissues bred from the ancient secrets of the universe, unexplained and unapologetic, wondrously made yet daunted and fallible. Nowhere near perfect and no desire to be. Just a person who gives what I can when I can to others as they require but have needs of my own that must be met; and no, I don't require those needs from other people. I require them from myself, as I am, a whole person with no more or no less than I am able.
How like me to think such a thing with such conviction. How dare I think less of my thoughts than I do. As the world turns another page into the histories of forever and I linger upon a blank page staring into my own thoughts waiting for the moments when all creation speaks needing a listener to hear its still voice; unechoed, uncharted, unhearable in mad rushes of daily do's and don'ts and how like me to dare to hear it. For what am I? Nothing more than one of life's children begging for my personal best among a millennium of atmospheres inside my living mind who has delved the unknown for unresourced answers in search of a query without answer or end. Always needing another question to fulfill its wanton boredom as the days that I live age my youth and wash away all answers.
Laughable, gullible, distinguishing mind of mine always in plight for a moment when all the worlds needs of my time are vanquished by eternities expanding everlasting in the vastness of vocabularies that rise like a breeze in the darkness of utter nothingness to be considered by thinking minds of space and time then discarded for their lack of interests.
And how very fortunate am I that these words, they find me. Waiting, wanting, in need of the presence to fortify my audacity to be such a person whom without care nor hesitation am ready for their visitations of linguistic majesties. How very much like me to feel when, by what some say is an archaic nature long lost to civilized societies, am pulled into the moments of being lost in the words of an nonvocal feeling, indescribable and lost on those who know it not, needs my attention, my affection and warmth. Without judgement or restraint to unbridled my hands from the treacherous forces of idle afflictions that leave my life empty and my mind marooned.
For what am I if not this? A collection of worded ideas long birthed before my life that has pooled into the currency of the world to be as I am now. A lost art. Without master nor student to pry me from my abandonment upon the minds of men, who walked away from worded moments of marvelous interventions where the life force of a breathing soul waited to be fulfilled with the pronunciations of prolific prodigies where none have dared trod. Albeit my own desire, I have need of it always to be only what it is no more or no less than the fruits of my forebears who gifted me the pleasures of willingness of word.
How very much like me. To plod upon a keyboard in hopes of nothing at all rather than to see each word find a place from my mind to a space where only my eyes see them as they are. Glorious reformations of lost periods of time wasted upon the endless, senseless activities of others who for not one moment would understand or even try to begin to understand a need other than their own.
