When I Don't Try - Words Hung by a Mind on Five Glasses of Wine

If I switch to whiskey before the wine is done my worry has overcome. If I die within a moment then gone is the heaven which I seek. None but I, the designation shared by all who speak in proclamations, can change all that has ever been. So goes the truth of bliss and sadness and there mere chapter-like physiques born from slicing through moments with the sharp blade of perception, becoming from lack of thought, born to die and live again in the minds of other I's.

Write it down so you don't forget. A broken camera leaves images for only those there to view and I, shattered lense and all, welcome the truth of all which has been, and will be, forgotten. Nothing ever happened if it wasn't recorded. If only I could prove that simple idea of nothing then there goes worry and the sustenance providing shadow which extends from it's leafy bow.

My face, burned from a sun which set hours ago, caressed by smoke, poisoned by that which sees it in its every-moment style of existing, full of wrinkles and time and memories of smiles worn in through deep thought out seconds of sitting alone during sun rises, weeps with joy at the standing nature of all who fondle its curves. So smoke and I go dancing wildly through my night which never ended and birthed light to form flowers forgotten by those without pens, those with a shattered lens.

If I could forget than it wouldn't be a problem. If forgetfulness had anywhere near the strength that the compartmentalizing human mind has then off goes the bad and good, though simply both designations, of a spirit lost in yearning.

Fire. Once touted as the creation of a lifetime, the savior of a people whose blood could not switch when the winds did, is now that which ignites all bad habits and meager nothings said to kill and maim but horror-filled they claim, more than any other treasure, static smiles in moments unlived. It's fear that ignites fire. Fear of death. Fear of life. And the sun rises.

Now another day and children play but the bricks falling from yesterdays buildings provide more fear than hope. Now history stands waiting to crumble. Forgotten and whistfully existing in what has been, that idea now living as an exhaled breath. Tomorrow. Oh, tomorrow. Today was spent thinking. So today never came and tomorrow couldn't possibly begin until those words have become an ever evolving, always simple, completely uninspiring answer to the lesson driven questions which will never be asked. Why now? It's always been now. Never has it not been anything but the truth that has always been known, always forgotten and never heard, but momentarily acknowledged, like the wild rhythmic stomping of bison on parched mid-western earth.

Hidden in groups surpassing the rigid structure of numbers is your answer. In the middles of centralized issues are the candy coated, soft with must-be-earned silkiness tender qualities of peace. They are the ones that we met and forgot and wept away while thinking of that other day.

The sky here, blue when hung without clouds on this day, is often shaded the color of black fighting white. When watering the earth, it brings us pain. While providing the new hues of blue which will live forever undefined, it gives us nameless bliss.

One choice. One truth. One episode and I have forgotten. None which calls us is ever given the power of those we call. When the night is warm or the day brings dry chills, when the soft sun creeps, or the moon makes wolves sing, what do you seek? I beg that the answer, that which resides within all questions, is actually I, and you, and any who have said something and called it truth.