It's not the kindling of poetry, not the trigger of efflux, you know. I lay on my bed, gaze at my ceiling fan go about its chore, and I get up with four lines in mind that I didn't want to waste because of the same.
This isn't the first time, I've always seen right from when I knew to 'see', that the blades are deceptive. And no one can actually tell which way the fan's rotating unless they've seen it go from first shot, and face it: You wouldn't think it's worth the time. And that led to something like a 'Dreamers' extrapolation, like how you see the chaos only when you're absorbed in it, and that means an absorption out of yourself, which is like egesting yourself out of your inside, a self-hurl, you know, and without it it's poetry. And it surprises me how something can be two separate worlds, totally unconnected, but then again, your mind and 'everything else' are sort of contrasts too, so it would only explain and strengthen why there's a difference. But that also undoubtedly raises the question as to what is 'sane': Is it the chaos, or is it the poetry, or is it the very stout line in between that finds it could accommodate more than ninety nine on hundred, or exponents of the same? And that is not a scary thought, but certainly not answerable. Because it's just a frame of mind, an interstice between two phases of when I'd think I know what I'm doing, as opposed to when I'd admit that I don't have a clue.
I'm hungry. 'Certainly'.
"White noise from my ceiling fan,
tranquil when I'm self-absorbed;
but when in bed, its chaos felt,
is this what clarity has brought?"
tranquil when I'm self-absorbed;
but when in bed, its chaos felt,
is this what clarity has brought?"
This isn't the first time, I've always seen right from when I knew to 'see', that the blades are deceptive. And no one can actually tell which way the fan's rotating unless they've seen it go from first shot, and face it: You wouldn't think it's worth the time. And that led to something like a 'Dreamers' extrapolation, like how you see the chaos only when you're absorbed in it, and that means an absorption out of yourself, which is like egesting yourself out of your inside, a self-hurl, you know, and without it it's poetry. And it surprises me how something can be two separate worlds, totally unconnected, but then again, your mind and 'everything else' are sort of contrasts too, so it would only explain and strengthen why there's a difference. But that also undoubtedly raises the question as to what is 'sane': Is it the chaos, or is it the poetry, or is it the very stout line in between that finds it could accommodate more than ninety nine on hundred, or exponents of the same? And that is not a scary thought, but certainly not answerable. Because it's just a frame of mind, an interstice between two phases of when I'd think I know what I'm doing, as opposed to when I'd admit that I don't have a clue.
I'm hungry. 'Certainly'.
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