why is it that the things that come so easily are the things so equally simple to discard? while the things that keep you up at night... the things - the dreams and ideas - that keep you up at night, worrying your pillow to a mass of threaded down..... the precious tokens of your self and your life- those innermost treasures lurking @ the baseboard of your spine..... that which we hold most dear - are the hardest to render and to put across.....
i could write you a sonnet - if i thought the words inevitably ended in a grade or happy punctuation
i could write you a song - if i knew the melody might amount to nothing more than a happy-forget-me-oh-so-quickly bygone tune...
i could tell you my story - if it meant that it would be what you wanted it to be - if the perameters were clear and stark - refined and fit into a nice little cubby hole...
but to say something true - and potent - and dark - yet equally lite - yet equally poignant - yet equally stark - something beautiful and enduring - that only i can muster - where the sentence ends who knows where..... the sky is too wide... the ocean too open.. the well too deep and the ether too dank... how do i light upon that which is good and true and somehow lasting and pure?
lurking, hiding, and waiting... something is willing itself to be born...
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