Post by nomad on Aug 23, 2007 22:24:47 GMT -5
Greetings Brujo! It is a nice site.. complete.
This is not poetry I suppose, though it may fit here. Some personal ramblings; I like to share.
I've been meaning to do this for, what seems like an eternity. Put pen to paper. I struggle often with this and I cannot help but wonder, if it is a fear of commiting. Commiting a thought - what but words - to symbols everlast, while synchronistically in mind letting that form evaporate, loosening the bond to these-- dark times. I yield too easily to the weight of the familiar, while still in blank eyes would be wind on water, unpinnable to any surface - though, what concerns, create the corners of my retreat, until the pressure breaks and I let loose - only the shrapnel of my thoughts.
Wondering, still, what would enmask my own visage, that when frustration draws the sword, only now would I recognize the contours of my body - as not a dream, a charactiture in this drama, but more like, my self.
I sense there is this overwhelming chorus where roles are demanded, lest be effevescent and lost in time, and space - perhaps this is what drives me to seek a culture, though not yet have I found truth in this - Am I not prepared to die among the walking?
Thank you for this space.
This is not poetry I suppose, though it may fit here. Some personal ramblings; I like to share.
I've been meaning to do this for, what seems like an eternity. Put pen to paper. I struggle often with this and I cannot help but wonder, if it is a fear of commiting. Commiting a thought - what but words - to symbols everlast, while synchronistically in mind letting that form evaporate, loosening the bond to these-- dark times. I yield too easily to the weight of the familiar, while still in blank eyes would be wind on water, unpinnable to any surface - though, what concerns, create the corners of my retreat, until the pressure breaks and I let loose - only the shrapnel of my thoughts.
Wondering, still, what would enmask my own visage, that when frustration draws the sword, only now would I recognize the contours of my body - as not a dream, a charactiture in this drama, but more like, my self.
I sense there is this overwhelming chorus where roles are demanded, lest be effevescent and lost in time, and space - perhaps this is what drives me to seek a culture, though not yet have I found truth in this - Am I not prepared to die among the walking?
Thank you for this space.