swinging glass

The views I imagined are never as important as the views I have to take with me for another day. If I lose the connection to someone's view I remember admiring I would have timed the days away from those moments with a surer plan than never. All those moments you take the eyes you cherish as their own ways of reflecting who you are the hours away from yourself seem much less important. I won't get through to my own need for expression by imagining that moment again, and I won't be able to stand next to someone I love with a different state of mind chosen by their reaction to me until I have given it less thought than the imports of my words upon the emotional contingency of every syllable. The confined words of a lost dream for acting like the ways of life will change me into the person I think can find a love important takes more time to give up the past than does the level headed energies of the moment. The reasoned mind takes too long to make up its choice in the long distance race of the soul to its bliss. The moment that emotionless stockade of a lost day drives your own motivation to the edge there are more parts lost than gained by the adding of your accomplishments to your ego. Sensible and tame, personal and easy, living and breathing for the average moments forgotten in the reduction of your ideas to turning wheels given flight by the revolving doors left to fall through like you can't see your own reflection anymore. The relation you have appraised by someone losing patience with the stymied interest in living outside of where you are and the level of the circles of swinging glass that give a pattern to the way that wheel connects your life to another, without another option you look like a square leaving traces of your corners in the crevices you found and didn't have a way out of. There in those long lost seconds of your life there is too much of yourself to handle and not enough of the realities you desired long ago, in the eons of light shining through your heart and gleaming in the eyes of those you have seen but not heard, those you have listened to but forgotten, those who were there but can no longer be seen, there is where you reside today, but tomorrow can always give you another reason to smile for no real reason at all, or laugh for the best reason you can ever remember.

free yourself from mental slavery

I have written in many different forms and I have thought through the very precise wordings of what I want to say in the most rigid and formal appearing contexts. I recall the days my hand was steady and wrote with the forms rote from practice and desire to perform. The longest passages of words given flight in flurries I would have given more time if I hadn't wanted to know where my mouth should open next and the breath of life's communication give the louder import of my souls desires. I have less skill in finding where the finest penmanship is in my capacity to etch a streak of color or exposition or verse across some place set for the wordings of someone else at some other time. This desire is no longer as urgent as other days in my life, and it has never been as strong as that desire to express and to know without the eyes or the ear or the mouth. There are those mental capacities diminished, and there are those I never sought to have, but I know that I can remember something lost better than something I never had. The conversations overheard in my head where I lost connection to something there to grab, I won't desire their return to prominence, I won't give in to being simply glad, I live with time to make a decision, but I have other lives I would have had, so every little time I remember one I think of them for there are better days to know where others were sad. I don't like this feeling and I never said I have.

love and communication

There are more people than I can account for and that has never been my desire. I've imagined the emotions of someone who has wanted to express their interests in ways that open the door to my heart. I'll say something to the other like I knew that I was not enough, though the confidences given to a personal ego are not enough to give up doubt. You is a good word to say when your thoughts are turned to what was the best time to know someone like yourself. I'll be there in ways that recall broader oppositions to not staying in the place I was brought (sullenly dropped?) It is better to change the stated distance from your idea of self to what is wrought. Repeated wording in what you were expecting to say isn't needed to be able to remind your own future of what you thought. I gave myself to a you that was lost in someone else's minding of the times they felt how easy it was to stop their own actions from being distraught. Those feelings are those I have wanted to know from others but I have wanted to enjoy making others feel well.

short creations

The written word leaps off the page differently than my eyes have seen the light shine through them. If I imagine the jump from type to electron I listen to the contemplation of processes I imagined once in the night I knew to be long and dark for my own knowledge, the desire to complete connection. I think in the times in between, I act on more words than I ever thought I wouldn't know. The din of my feelings in reverse was overwhelming once I felt I had burst. The long moments of inaction were of a long trail I knew, variable animosity can be worse.

the freezing cold, people analyzing feelings

I walked like it was a march across the frozen lake of my days passed in isolation. It was the crisp breath on the air like a new way of feeling the water that I was bathed in one summer day. I'll listen to ducks I thought at one point, I'll listen to the eagles like I've known their language all my life. But once I start walking again the blood flows and I'm warmed to the knowledge of my peers leaving their own interests to find the place they knew before I lost the will to walk. I'll know the ways that I took were of the type that gives me reprieve from some distant memory. I'll listen to the air like it was blowing through the walls and whispering in the light of bright bulb. Once the days and nights have shelter they seem like they did when you listened to the spinning of disc above the hum of an electronic pulse. I take the knowledge of my desires as a new type of despair trumped by the interest in emotional connections, taken by the desire to know someone and fearing my own power to express how different I lost my personality in trying to know myself as that independent man, the one who didn't listen to the people trying to make you feel bad, but listening to how that made you feel about yourself, taking solace in your own self-esteem, the people who you knew were interested in making you feel better, listen to the knowledge of your past, listen to the types of praise you want to be, and act like you know that those days have not faded, be able to differentiate between yourself and the long distances you have traveled. One day doesn't leave everything up to your night, but it gives you the power to make a decision that should have been right. It may have changed you for the worse, it may have made you feel alive in ways that others might, but it won't give you strength to distance yourself from feelings, from the expression of yourself to others who want to be in your life. I'll remember feeling happy in the middle of the night, but it was fewer days than others who have given you their life, I distance myself from violent reproach but know how hard it can be to fight, when you listen to your farther leaves, your trunk gives you the pride. It became a snowy wonderland to many who love this life, the days and weeks of winter have not always been so bright. The sun reflects, and I have stopped to refract, I'm listening to myself type. I'd rather know who looks at me and has interest in living a life. I'll type once again, I'll be open to my life, I'll run in days, I'll walk in nights, but one day was cold and the sun still bright. I lost my breath one day long ago, and I'll lose it like I dreamed in some type of height. It is a day again to listen to a friend, and know how to give your life. The paths not always cleared, I lost myself in the lights, the color of the roads becoming darker once the night dims your interest in catching lost light. In the long paths found, there are new people aware of your rights, the fast new trapping of yourself in what you love about life. The long found knowledge of who you had been, how it made sense to your days, and the distance of sleepless nights, given to wanting contact with your human brothers, sisters more important was how you typed. It left my impression wanting, it left my knowledge imprecise, but still the teams of leaves, paper written, blank ones knowing who was right, the lost days you found less important, the new dreams about what promise would have meant to a new life. Still the imprecise distance from truth gives me a longer continuation of how important others are to a long life, and how long is the moment stretched to what is important in life. So I'll know what I meant and I'll know what actions were right, I'll know how different it is to be myself and I'll still be who I am tonight.

the wind on my face

I'll savor those feelings in the world I identify with the most as the ones I dreamed away by the interest in feeling the things I heard and wanted to know the visions that I felt should be my own. I stood in the snow last night like the world was darker and more bright than I had ever felt it was with wet freezing water fleeing the sky into the depths of my face, my beard taking on the moisture like a warm place to spend the rest of the night was all it needed. I'll never be able to know what that would have felt like a year ago, I'll never remember the connection between what that moment in time was like in its correlate moment in the passage of the earth around the sun. It was a singular moment given a feeling turning in my head like a new way to think of the cold sensation I wanted to avoid in the warmth of my electronic lights. I'll listen to that feeling like a warm memory of the sun on my neck in the summer, like the rain on my head in the middle of the day, it won't matter as much some other day I'll know, it won't give me the same trouble with decision in my later years, I may think I know it, I may imagine the fading memory as a person aged by the nights I spent in head contemplating the ways I could take a new approach to where I was and how I became another person, but I think all I know today is I loved the snow on my face when I was young.

the morning light

I awake to an orb of light, bright orange and not pale to the night. I think in the light of an ancient radiance that gives meaning to every morning. I haven't seen the risen rays every day as some imagine they might. I'll give my perspective of the sun thought many mornings and the days growing shorter is not about only my life. The people around me know but expression is about more than intellectual heights. I writhe in reactions to some thought about my life. The emotional devotions of another dream I didn't invite. I think of every morning in another type of light, I'll listen to every thought I get, I often gave them more time at night. The time of listening has been the removal of myself from other types. A little written expression gives emotional expression a kind of life, desolate in some places, driven to new information types, I gave the weights of interpretation the level imposition in around about - letting some fade as though I couldn't say why they were important without others justification and the words and reactions of someone more important, or more knowledgeable, perhaps the experienced thoughts were too jumbled to make sense in my mouth. I'll know that my words are sometimes not quite my own though I thought through them as any person might. The pattern I have taken connects to others many times through out the sights and sounds of my life. That communication jumbled, mistakes I've felt or made can take my new meaning overnight. Those others I lost the will to know gave me a part of their life, whether I knew it that day or not, forever etched as memory, the connections lost or not. This moment recent not much unlike others I've had an interest in occurring through my life. The conversation given to what topics are at hand, the continuation always interrupted, whether my own or some type of distinct real event that made connection stay out of that part of a life. The actions as a part of that interest in connection stopped by my own analysis of why I shouldn't have time to be involved in such things, my imprecise personal life as different as some others say I could be. The test I felt was of my own design but was how I felt trapped by my own interest in words precise. There are other words to say this, there are other days about which I could write, the same thoughts may apply, the actions as well could be less about how my time was given to others and more about the little ways my own confidence was given to how others felt my life was right. The way I wrote about the things I read was less of my voice and more of the time inside my head. There is always more to say but I remember the time thoughts swirled as the moment had passed.