Saturday, March 6, 2010

careful climbing.

"Your grandfather always had a natural kind hospitality about him. He would make sure my family got enough heat in the house during winter, and sacrifice his burning coals to accommodate us. After 2 months of knowing him I was crazy about him." -grandmother.

Watching the roads ahead of my hands, as the wheel is being navigated, the streets become illuminated by the juxtaposition of water and twilight as it casts a shimmery illusion of translucent lights beaming below the surface. Rain. Logic and reason tell me that the ground is solid, but sheer vision elicits a more imaginative gesture. The moment sweeps me away and I submit to unreality, to the captivating notion that all the cars glide above some transparent surface making everything clear and colorful.

I've come again, full circle, to the place of isolation. Caution glued to my palms, unwilling to be thrown to the wind, weighing my hands down to the ground rendering me on all fours. History repeats itself and a redundant melancholy atmosphere compresses against my shaky palpating organ. Hands clutch an invisible aching hoping to barricade the foreign commotion that seemed to have caused a change in pace for my shaky palpating organ. Perhaps it may have been beneficial to let down the walls of protection and establishment, but it feels only natural to keep outside intruders on the outside of my shaky palpating organ. What feels like never is really what is waiting patiently, meticulously for a true and irrepressible reaching touch upon my shaky palpating organ. Nothing seems to big or small of an intrusion, but everything is cautiously scrutinized and placed in distant regions from my shaky palpating organ. Why then does it seem to cry out for those foreign interferences? An ironic reaction for something so deliberately construed and rejected by my shaky palpating organ. My thoughts waylay the determination behind my actions as the air escapes my grasp, leaving me with a mountain of complexities to climb and conquer with little source of lung capacity. I saunter forward, one arduous step in front of another, making sure I ramify the heaps I step over as I go along. Will power and motivation take form in my hope, the hope that is as bleak as an ember, but persistently existing under all circumstances. Here is my path, and my strength has yet to keep to me down.


No comments:

Post a Comment