Rambled musings

Days and hours flow, moments change into others

Time passes, minutes fly, hours drag.

Things get done, sometimes by being avoided.

The time works onward. Light comes in and it fades again.

Being and doing, sensing it all.

Focus and out of focus, it all come in.

Wind, movement, noise, speech, brightness 

All to process and adjust for.

Sometimes rightly sometimes wrongly.

Does it make sense? Did it have to?
I see myself, in mirrors, I look and look at myself

Is that me? Aged and fatter and grey.

It doesn’t match inside my head

My vision of me, not him.

The lines on the face, the eyes, the hair

Details and a life all shown there.

But mine? 

Not the thoughts that sore, not the crush of feeling and memory. 

Not the heartbreaks and disasters, not the little wins.

Doesn’t show the goodness and the hope and the..

But it’s there and it’s rounded and broken up by that nose

It’s shows no energy, no vitality.

The smile is offset and squeezed and doesn’t look right.

It doesn’t carry the lightness and deftness of thought.

Of the inside speed of thought and slowness of tongue.

It’s the face I see, the one I have, it looks at me.

I raise an eyebrow, puff up the cheeks.

Always end up at the eyes and the colour and the shine.

It lifts the rest of the face, but shows it’s own story

I rub my face, hands in hair. I look at the screen.

Sometimes the reflection, othertimes just that light.

What can I say here, what can I type? 

How do I be clever or funny?

What do I say? How I feel?

What words mean empty?

How do you express the pit of the stomach.

The sighs that aren’t sighs, the air that’s blown outwards?

The dreams, the hopes and wishes.

The desire to be friendly, to get to know.

Wanting to understand and see and get the point 

Wanting to hear and experience.

She’s had many forms, a girl, a women.

Many ages and hair colours and figures and shapes.

Dresses and trousers and colours of tops or blouses.

Hair blonde or brown or black or red

Eyes blue or green or brown.

Arms long or short and hands and fingers.

She doesn’t exist, or maybe she does and is and has been 

I imagine the touch gentle, the words soft and knowing.

Perfect and right and just so.

Knowing me and giving me hope and courage.

The mistakes to come, the time forgotten, the minutes passed.

Holding me, wanting nothing, understanding.

I drift off to see her, a dream, a memory.

A sunny day with just a breeze.

Not thing wrong in the world and no distractions.

I wake and I don’t remember. I don’t see the face.

I don’t know the detail or the where and how or anything said.

It’s just there. It’s unconscious thought and dreams

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s