"I am a man." "If they are poems, or if they are not poems . . . does it really matter? And who would it matter to?"
- Bob Dylan, highway 61 I had all these ideas swirling, waiting to be written down, drawn out, screamed out but I lost my control and became mute to avoid expressing these raging feelings. Times goes on and on and on, sometimes too slow sometimes too fast and i catch myself staring at the clock waiting for that moment. waiting for that time. but then I start to realize that i don't know what I am waiting for, i don't know what i want. i'm never angry just confused by the way the clock intrigues me with its clicking chimes and small hands. i push myself harder to this imaginary limit to this imaginary place to this imaginary persona. i pedal faster, run harder, pull stronger. yet when all the things stand still and i walk away with my balance tipping left and right i'm left in this same world wondering where i had really gone. i lay still staring at the ceiling waiting for this sleep to take over me. i am excited to see those little pictures in my head and i am curious to know what story will play out this time. i put my hands by my sides and just listen to the outside wind. i hear people arguing, i hear the cold whipping my window. i shut my eyes but i am only met with a blank canvas. light still slips through and alas i can never be in complete darkness. Arrive without travelling
See all without looking
Do all without doing.
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