a bird takes a bath in a puddle,
an occurrence which has, perhaps been happening for as long as birds and puddles have coexisted. I am grateful that my brief existence could overlap with such a phenomenon. ho hum - Atlas
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thunder rattles the windowpanes,
I want to let it in. but I cannot bring myself to rise so it paces, a wolf outside my door. hmm - Atlas all those little things I did.
what good was it. and I love my mind because it actually answers the question, it actually explains what and why and how. I don't know. it is late and all things feel equidistant. hrmmm - Atlas this terrible queen the ego
demands no small amount of protection her guards are many, fierce, and strong and she has trained them well over the years I want to add more to this but nothing seemed to fit. perhaps someday I'll come back to it, who knows - Atlas do you know who you are when the lights go down
or are you running, too eyes closed, mind turned inwards seeking something to consume hmmm (I like the beginning, not so sure about the end) - Atlas but at some point
you have to move on, the rain said as it rolled down the windshield, leaving droplet trails behind. at some point enough has to be enough. yes but when? I reply. does it look like I have all the answers to you, the rain said I don't know. go find out. I feel like this had the potential to be something... else? something different? I like the format and the beginning, but I wasn't quite sure what to do with the end - Atlas I wonder who the dead girl was
before she became a symbol. was she a pianist, I wonder, making even the dust motes dance when there was no one else to listen. do they miss her? is she dancing with them, now? shmeh - Atlas the dead bird,
the live music sunlight streaming down through gaps in clouds like the opposite of rain in another world they would have been contradictions, perhaps, but not in this one. I'm not quite sure what to make of that. and I'm not quite sure what to make of this poem either - Atlas this rest does not
feel restful, it settles beneath my skin, an itch-- when I am still, I should be moving. when I move, it is in the wrong direction. I try to remember the ease that I have felt before, try to find my way back. my mind wavers, and I am left holding smoke. I suppose it's the challenging days where practicing becomes the most important - Atlas I swear that everything was fine until
I started thinking about it. when I just let myself move it was natural, effortless, but then I asked questions of "enough" and "efficiency" and thought of them without moving. there's something I wanted to say here but I don't think I said it. alas - Atlas |
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