They say to listen to your heart.
But my heart says nothing but "thump. thump. thump."
It may skip and it may stutter, but clarity it does not impart.
It has no mouth and no ears.
I cannot hear it and it does not hear me.
Perhaps to listen to my heart, I have to use different gears?
We simply have MUCH too much time on our hands to think.
What colour would it be, that time that we think?
If time was ink.
Would it be pink?
Or perhaps it would be blue, because blue it could be too.
But why not orange?
Orange seems like the link.
Of any good reason?
I cannot think.
All that it means is we simply have MUCH too much time on our hands to think.
About the possibility of our thoughts being pink.
You cried and it rained
You let out an exasperated sigh and the winds blew high
You spun and danced into a hurricane
When you tripped and fell, you took the whole world with you– my world
And I want it back
I always knew you were special
Maybe even influencial
But still I wondered what would happen,
if you could just smile.
A strangled cry that resonates with me.
Because I finally broke my years of silence.
You sister, are all the stars can see
You sister, are bright as bright can be.
You feel battered and beaten.
Like life's given you no breaks.
I know there is no clarity inbetween the aches.
Your capriciousness rivals that of a heathen God.
Mercurial to say the least.
Yet you seem to conquer all, and still vanquish the beast.
Because despite your qualms and all anxieties that may be.
You must believe me sister, you truly are all the stars can see.
Have you ever wondered how strange it is to be anything at all?
To have consciousness and thought.
To be more than anything we've ever brought or taught?
It is a larger burden that we bear.
Far deeper than any dress or meager tuft of hair.
The resonating sound of the emptiness around
the chambers inside our heads.
The untangible words that we think or have read.
A swirl of being leading to imminent insanity instead.
For being is a complex affair.
Where all interesting things happen in our heads full of air.
Our dear Hamlet had it right.
To be or...
Why do you not show us mercy?
Because mercy is merely a word of your own creation.
Where is our salvation?
Death will be your only salvation.
We'll ask what the purpose of it all was then?
There is no purpose.
Merely an end.
I often think of escape. The thought of it pervades my mind and serves as only a fine thread keeping me sane. The notion of escape is nearly too much to bear, quickly overwhelming me with such a feeling I cannot explain. Perhaps excitement? I am unsure. I can merely comment that it is neither good, nor bad; it is simply something to keep me holding on. My own mind acts as a shackle, binding me where I stand. It seeks to madden me with thought and it is from this I must escape. I try not to fall victim to it. Slay the beast, and you...