Thoughts.

By the Kitchen Sink

I suppose I am someone considered an idiot by my standards. Especially when I know that hope and belief should mean almost nothing to me. What good does it do? I mean; honestly.

But its only a flicker, somewhat like a candle in the dark, touching the walls of the sweet-scented kitchen with a slice of green cheese falling apart in a bowl. And that flicker is rather surreptitious, perhaps curious, as it reaches out for the eyes to see. It always existed within me but now it seems pointless. Ridiculous, even. Still, it's nice to look at in the dark. The room is adventure and that flicker is the heart of it, running out of oxygen. Sort of sweet, like a poet's first song or a melancholic text on cheesy love. Almost funny, though, to my logical self. It only allows it to exist because it is dominant over it, and because it looks somewhat sympathetic flickering there as a sign of memory. Sometimes logic gets bored and turns it off until night settles in. Candles aren't pretty to look at during the day.

So that flicker. That flicker. I'm fascinated with that flicker of hope and wishful thinking. It's amusing. Dear to me. Of course, I look at it as I look at a child, listening to it compassionately but never taking it too seriously. And that flicker never bursts into a flame. You don't want to give it too much oxygen. It might run out of control. Most people don't know that though. Poor them. You should never give anything that much compassion. Most things aren't worth it. They just grow stronger and decide it'd be nice to backstab you for the throne. Go figure.

But I listened to a poem sort of like:

"Be my guest,

...Take the rest

Infest my soul

Make a hole

I want to die

...this crazed toll

Infatuation is

My punctuation

Is all I am

Is all I am..."

So this is how the story goes of those of crazed heart. How rather funny this all is, I'd think of it an art. But didn't you know how silly this crazed toll really is? It all is a small part of us; I can see it in your tears. You rained pearls both day and night and I never saw them again. I am not supposed to; I don't really deserve it. Not because of the distance, but because you chose it for us. There is one thing called the physical seperation, and another the distance of the heart. Now the latter I don't fully understand. What should it ever mean? In the end, it came to you. In the end, it always came to you.

I write in broken poetry. I'm not really a poet, you see. It's all a joke; it's all a fake; it's all a rather silly mistake.

Perhaps I shouldn't try understanding. Our backgrounds are rather different. I still write these thoughts down from time to time, wondering, pondering, dreaming. And if I gave you this ability for a day, what would be the words you'd say?

Because I'd like to comprehend and understand this demand for this send; this send to oblivion, for once I couldn't understand. I had tried so hard, but sweat and blood matters not if times are incorrect. So I guess we both wait for wisdom and time to make peace, solitude and perhaps, for you to decide all anew.

And what I thought I knew was nothing that I knew.