Sometimes I think too hard
null thoughts
Sometimes I think too hard, and the preface of wondering where it will go stops me before I can recount a days work.
I got up, to do things, seemingly.
Then I wonder where the world goes when you sleep, so I don’t.
Then I wonder where the lights go when it burns.
To the wick, I hear them suffer. Cracks in fissures, fingerlength waters—tepid.
Enough for gradiants to morph into solids.
For clocks to tick to me as my lullaby.
I hear whispers at evening,
At noon, I pretend they have a breath—
In the morning they wake up with me, and glow to reveal the cavities beneath the surface.
Fractals, disbelief, am I that way too?
I wonder what crude oil feels like as it lays for man to find it.
And if I am as helpless as the rain,
Not enough in a singularity.
Or a changed motioned moment.
But I keep waking up to whispers.
I call them pathfinders, and I keep them beneath my tongue.
Calling out in facination—awakening underbellies.
Turning up gold,
Outlasting Gods.
Reliving beat up clauses and metaphysical promises like—
Clocks that aren’t ticking to the right cadence anymore.
Chills that stay in my spine, rather than go up.
Your fingerprints on a picture, and how I can’t seem to muster up the courage to wipe them off—I see cowardice as strength, despite.
And how at least I can admit that my urge to destroy stays lapsesd in time, like this clock, or in my single-minded idled thoughts, or ingrained in my routine—the lack there of. So it keeps whirling, like a grain of sand I keep trying to find in my bed. I call it You because I know the function of something so small can still be the thing to move me in and out of rem cycles, into slumber, back from nightmares and into the very last thing I saw when I woke up praying to God that I did not want to ever be like that again. I walked to its euphoria, I saw the inside of the tome—a subscript written and only executed by it’s lack of mortality and love and pain. There was so much pain, enough to evaporate the water of the rain, of the air between words, of the shirt stained because the blood won’t just, stop. Anymore. There was no stopping of time, or reverence in tragedy. Evermore in lighting it’s last strung up corpse.
Only a God out there, and he’s calling your name.
-alice
