the four right chords can make me cry

Today I feel lyrical.

In the mood to write some mind-blowing, gut-punching, heart-wrenching, tear-welling poetry. But no inspiration. So prose it shall be. Prose is my friend, the very medium of my soul, turning me inside out so you know who I think I am. Without prose my life would be a vacuum, I would be a lonely planet floating in emptiness aimlessly through the milenia, unaffected as your star becomes a supernova and dies, no way of making my presence felt, no sound or light travelling through my universe.

Words. Words like Friend. Memories. Sunlight filtering through the leaves in gold and green. Transcendence. Ephemeral. Horizon. Tenderness. Sigh. Sipping coffee under the covers while it rains outside. Seeing your own reflection in the glass as you gaze outside at the wet wet world which has paused, suddenly dropped all it's activity and bustle. The damp birds sulking on the telephone lines. The drop of cool water rolling off a palm leaf. Your breath fogging up the window panes. A good book. Good music.

I move slowly through the room drawn to the window, wading through the air thick with time, limbs langourous like honey dripping out of the comb. Then I settle at the point of least resistance and occupy the shape of my container.

Limp. Languid. Langourous.
The world shedding it's pretention.

I may be slow. But don't you think you see so much more that way?

posted by beckyboo @ 10:05 PM