I always find myself wondering about things. I wish this meant anything other than a poor attempt to present a train of thought. I wonder if anything is to make some sort of man out of me. Is the way I walk supposed to evolve into some proud stride? Beholding myself feels like fiction. I just want to be able to see something that doesn't feel like it was burdened onto me. Unto? I'm always wondering if something is that way on purpose or if the street lights can feel something that we can't. I wonder if the birds can see us falling apart. Can the ground feel how heavy it all is? My brain can't be the only one walking beside its body. What are the bugs in the ground doing? Are all of our studies of things that can't speak our language true or are they all just playing some sick joke on all of us? An inside joke that none of us could ever be privy to. Our wit is only so finite, I wonder right now. Our wisdom is only so wise, I guess, although I can't say I've ever conjured up a shred of original thought, let alone a wisdom worthy of entitlement. I know I'll never find what I'm looking for and I know it'll never matter anywhere besides in my seclusion, and maybe that's just where I belong, albeit melancholic, but it's the place I keep finding myself in. It's not always bad. I don't think it could be all that awful considering it's mine. I wonder, though, if this place is anywhere near as white as my frustration.
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The Ditch
Historia CortaThere's a place-- something sort of serene-- that I fall into when I walk too fast. Sometimes, once or twice, it's been because I walked too slow. It's kind of dark and I can feel the ants and beetles and worms and things waiting for me to call it i...
