Who bares their heart in this world? What kind of a person walks around with their heart on their sleeve? Tonight I feel I have nothing to offer anyone. Not even bright words to console myself with. Words which are written but will never be read. Words I offer to the night, in the language of dreams. Words flung off by the smallest jostles of the world. And words mired in that intangible hope I cling to.
Tonight I am alone. I live in a city that is full of people. Some of them share their nights with each other, even for many consecutive nights. They get to know each other in strange and original ways. It is a very strange thing, the ways that people affect each other. I am now by myself, but I still feel the effects of some of these other people. I think about them. I think about myself and whether they think about me, and if they do think of me what is it they think about me. These thoughts alone, knocking around my head, can swing me any number of directions. Perhaps my heart turns to sorrow and I'll tuck it away. I only hold my heart in my hands when nobody is looking. On the other hand, I can find love and devotion if I look for the signs of it, and this puts a smile on my face. Either way, any way it turns, I will hold it in private. It is such an odd and embarrassing spectacle, so I keep it to myself. There must be a place in my mind for these kinds of odd thoughts. I wonder if I store them all away together, and if they can get along with each other. With so many odd thoughts, they surely aren't all compatible. Perhaps they form little alliances with each other, a realpolitik of absurd notions, striving for those among the menagerie who fit together with them and fighting off those that don't. Perhaps they themselves change through these interactions, so I can't recognize them when they resurface, wearing a new guise that fools the mechanisms policing those odd thoughts. Perhaps they are what feed our dreams. A silly dream, the strange and unexplored parts of ourselves making a futile attempt at escape to the forefront of consciousness, only to find themselves on the escarpment of the land of dream. They find to their joy that anything is possible here, but it is a small space, only a few inches of cranial capacity lying within a paralyzed body. But in dreams, at least, all these thoughts have their freedom, unrestricted for those brief, quickly forgotten stints. Maybe that is how the mind deals with the strangeness of the world, or rather its existence in the world, so the rest of it all can do its job in our awake state, that job of keeping you alive, strange thoughts and all. But then who am I in these dreams of mine? I think I am the gateway for thought, but who is policing who? I am myself, my ability to survive and to cope with the strangeness of my survival. It is a truly odd thing that everybody does, to live and think and dream. To think and dream is something that is natural to us, the living, but in dreaming are we only hiding from our own thoughts? Legs walk and minds wander.
For tonight I am alone as these words, and I think that is a good thing. For now I share something in common with these words: we're far too convoluted to make good company for anyone.
Tonight I am alone. I live in a city that is full of people. Some of them share their nights with each other, even for many consecutive nights. They get to know each other in strange and original ways. It is a very strange thing, the ways that people affect each other. I am now by myself, but I still feel the effects of some of these other people. I think about them. I think about myself and whether they think about me, and if they do think of me what is it they think about me. These thoughts alone, knocking around my head, can swing me any number of directions. Perhaps my heart turns to sorrow and I'll tuck it away. I only hold my heart in my hands when nobody is looking. On the other hand, I can find love and devotion if I look for the signs of it, and this puts a smile on my face. Either way, any way it turns, I will hold it in private. It is such an odd and embarrassing spectacle, so I keep it to myself. There must be a place in my mind for these kinds of odd thoughts. I wonder if I store them all away together, and if they can get along with each other. With so many odd thoughts, they surely aren't all compatible. Perhaps they form little alliances with each other, a realpolitik of absurd notions, striving for those among the menagerie who fit together with them and fighting off those that don't. Perhaps they themselves change through these interactions, so I can't recognize them when they resurface, wearing a new guise that fools the mechanisms policing those odd thoughts. Perhaps they are what feed our dreams. A silly dream, the strange and unexplored parts of ourselves making a futile attempt at escape to the forefront of consciousness, only to find themselves on the escarpment of the land of dream. They find to their joy that anything is possible here, but it is a small space, only a few inches of cranial capacity lying within a paralyzed body. But in dreams, at least, all these thoughts have their freedom, unrestricted for those brief, quickly forgotten stints. Maybe that is how the mind deals with the strangeness of the world, or rather its existence in the world, so the rest of it all can do its job in our awake state, that job of keeping you alive, strange thoughts and all. But then who am I in these dreams of mine? I think I am the gateway for thought, but who is policing who? I am myself, my ability to survive and to cope with the strangeness of my survival. It is a truly odd thing that everybody does, to live and think and dream. To think and dream is something that is natural to us, the living, but in dreaming are we only hiding from our own thoughts? Legs walk and minds wander.
For tonight I am alone as these words, and I think that is a good thing. For now I share something in common with these words: we're far too convoluted to make good company for anyone.