As I sit here on this stool, with the rubber cushion;
minus the splits of foam that I’ve sat in before
I resume a type of thinking more characterized
apparently focusing on the majority leaves one ignoring even
the most apparent responses of bodily intentions, my digression…
Anaylzing the differences seen from the past, present and future
Is there any mirror that defines life in a way
that isn’t scary to look at;
layering the foundations on the white scars that starting healing after
the last suture was placed
It’s interesting that memories take a form of their own
Categorizing emotions like I wasn’t living at all
But the body copies moments and marks up skin
At least for myself, if these things that I felt, either figuritively or litterally, were real
but i wonder, why can’t i remember?
Is there a certain price to pay for filling up mind, brain
with more thoughts than many are capable of beliving at all
Not that I mind being the mirrored masked portrait of someone
but if chance had humor could it mean that there were a few less neurons firing then previoiusly thought?
Should I mind if I’m never told the same story twice
given only just the suggestion, the motivational penetration
of anyone else’s digressions that make it from one brain to the next?
I am grateful for the lost pieces. ❤