Pulse

My heart pulses. The Clock ticks on. Today I remember a memory from Yesterday. Yesterday was the day I visited these thoughts. 

The truth is that when ink is felt at the glide of a pen, so does the spill of words resemble splattered blood when my fingers touch these keys. It’s nothing but broken glass now. Yesterday I looked at self through reflective looking glass, and I wondered moments later as water trickled down from shoulder to my spine: how many times have authors shown themselves in literature.

Simple as could be, I could not consider a response for I was distracted by the act of rinse, wash, rinse, wash, rinse. Simple as could be. So, I consider these thoughts now. It would be almost unwise of me to state that which is untrue, but the truth is; I am incapable of giving a response, even if I should reconsider, it is impossible to tell a story of the lives I never lived. To tell a story is to first live in a story. Because I could not consider these thoughts as my mind would have it, I become enveloped in a silence.

Do not get carried away by the fireworks, it is danger all the same. Do not get carried away by caricatures, they are reflections anyway. Do not get carried away by singular acts of desperation, that are so eager to become whole they begin to divide themselves into a multitude. Thinking that maybe quantity could ever supercede quality.

Tragic as could be, the one and only thing that carried me away from the constant distraction of washing and rinsing with repetition, was the sound of the pianos, from somewhere far away in my mind, but someplace close by on an axial level.

So I said to self, once again forming a reflection beyond the glass, tis the end and tis the beginning.