Inside my mind and inside this head, there remain riddles and fiddles, stories that must be said. Music that must be shared and cared for. Four seasons of abstractions upon abstractions that never get old. That which must be said will be told. That which is sold as sounds will be shipped to the outskirts of towns. To the outskirts of my mind.
The city and I are one thing. I am insignificant to the ground beneath and the schedule of a passerby. I am a walking light, lighter and less obvious to the senses than a subtle blow of the breeze. The subtle kiss of a past lover settling on a left cheek months and years ago. Down an alley in memory lane that you frequent.
How often does the engine of your thoughts silence and give into the river’s cry. To die or survive – all things reduced to binary. The blacks and whites of the world fight, still. The world is grey. Our minds process color.
I see as I feel. I think briefly through the breaks between each color and sound. The noise beats reason often. I try to think as the circus drowns out my deductive reasoning. I do things one can only imagine in the dark. Infinite shadows permeate space and time when I’m there alone.