In this eerie contrast of needles and night
I lay in the brittle arms of
time, sulfur-yellow,
and read all those scribbles
I once made on its swollen-eye
colored canvas.
“Daddy, where do the stars come from?”
“Do time strings build cocoons and fly?”
“Was the universe born of women like me?”
“Or are we just stick figures in the sky?”
What and why am I?
What and why am I?
Time lost its grip of me.
?
I only wanted to live in accord with the promptings that came from my true self. Why was that so very difficult?
I like what you did here - an ethereal quality that gets inside of things. I see you're back to the basic questions of philosophy (or life?) which I appreciate. It reminds me of the time when I was seven and asked an adult why the moon was following our car and he answered, "Because that's just the way it is."
My favorite lines:
In this eerie contrast of needles and night
I lay in the brittle arms of
time, sulfur-yellow,
and read all those scribbles
I once made on its swollen-eye
colored canvas.
"He was nauseous with regret when he saw her face again, and when, as of yore, he pleaded and begged at her knees for the joy of her being. She understood Neal; she stroked his hair; she knew he was mad."
---Jack Kerouac, On The Road: The Original Scroll
heh yes, i share a similar story. i asked my dad at age 5 where the universe came from and how big it was and he just replied. it didnt come from anywhere, it always was. and that made no sense to me, and ive been confused since then. thanks jonny.
I only wanted to live in accord with the promptings that came from my true self. Why was that so very difficult?
Posting Permissions
Reply With Quote