You say, "In a min, I am writing," like I do normally to you.
While I found a lost link in me, someone I used to be. On purpose, but still..
. Niedhavellir,
Feels separate, disparate, apart.
To be here now, to look at this aggregate of far-flung, fantasized notions of self,
Is worse than a shallow cut with a sharp blade
You know--the finger won't fall off, definitely, but a scar is made.
Feels a lifetime ago
And what did you do with that lifetime?
Seems nothing to show.
A hollow distraction, though--I came here to be anew.
And I find peace, am at least pleased, that I recognize me
here.
anyway, like I was saying:
All The Hallowed Hollows We Wallow In
They say, "Call it Frankenstein's Monster," and so a web, a plan, is made.
It's a tall-tale, to tell-all
And hide the truth inside
The glimpse of a whispe,r like smoky mist-vapor over water
How the secrets pass on
I'm in bed, waiting
For strawberry-season to come
The wild ones in the Columbia River Gorge at the base of Mount Hood
Tha t peak and peek ou tt in the springgtime, sweet mead ow timme,
That cusp of summertime,
and all the fallen antlers and dead leaves swam away in the winters' sludge,
w herr e a ll th e w ords n ow als o go.
That's all just to say, I'm starting this blog again, because my relationship with writing needs precedence or purpose, and maybe there's a tinny tiny bit of that here.
