It is Monday. It is in the A.M. It is a day of work, but a short one (I hope).
Today will not be a long day, unless it attaches more hours.
The weather does not heave, but it is overcast.
I am starting this in a manner in which I have started many a post, but that is okay as very soon I shall veer hard off the track, such as right now.
Why are the walls hitting the ground? There is a distance that cannot be touched, but soon if they persist there is no doubt in my mind that they shall too tunnel into the earth in order to be unearthed at a later date.
Of course, if the keys keep ringing out with the screams of joy in the meantime, then there is no telling as to what the course of action will be. So long as I have water by my side, then surely the carpet will stop looking at me in the way that it thinks that the glint of the earth thinks that it should.
Now, seeing as there is a rhythm that is pulsing in and out, throbbing as though it is some sort of organic dance track, I could throw all of this out the window and just assume that what is occurring around me is some sort of natural beast that only wants to go home, but then again, if that is indeed the case, then the phrases that I shall repeatedly use on and off throughout the day hold no quarter, nor any argument in my housing.
Then again, there is no telling as to which way the carousel leads when it is walking toward the winds that blow in the direction of none, but I don’t think that that is something that needs to be pursued, so there are other hands at the bay that need t o be slapped.
What if, in some sort of manner that all that is experienced is merely an unwritten poem, left to be cursed as unwritten for the rest of its days due to the poet at hand not having the words to express the desires that the land continually shouts? What if the land wants to free from the soil and rise up from the cities? What if it, too, wants to reach for the stars and then one day does so?
There is so much to consider, and yet there is a consideration for the considering as it drifts off into a space that cannot be reached, or touched, or something to similar effect?
Then it too shall make sure that on whatever peak resides the idea of the argument, that it shall strike the pose of the drinking of the tea, but the taxes need to be handled with extreme pressure on this particular day, so therefore the words that shall carry from its echoing voice shall too reach the solace that they too so desperately reach for.
The time it took to write five-hundred words: 05:42:74
Working on letting it flow.
Not sure what to make of this one.
Written at work