Muse

Writing.
Its thinking slowly and deliberately, a discipline lost on the subconscious which overwhelms with a constant torrent of sensory representations.
Then you need something to focus on to control and channel your thoughts...something that inspires you to eke out coherence from the chaos of your thoughts.
Something...or someone to anchor yourself on.
A muse.

My muse, as I long ago confessed was not real.
It was a composite person...partly made of imaginary attributes that as a writer I thought a Muse should possess and some attributes from people whom I knew.(or I imagined I knew)

My Muse appreciated what I wrote.
She craved it.
Our symbiosis was was pure.
It was religious.

Then I got married.
Love of a real woman is a powerful thing.
Too powerful, too expanding...too demanding.

My muse was no longer an imaginary construct.
She is now flesh and blood.
She is gravity.
She is everything...and more.

She is everything...and less.

She makes me want to break into a song.
She makes me want to hug and nuzzle.
She makes me want to flex my muscles taut.

But she is not the muse that made me write.






This is not an excuse, but an exposé.

Slow and deliberate,
sifting through the mind.

I wonder how Mark Twain did it.

Why do I come here anymore?

Why do I come here anymore?

I'm in a relationship.

I have Facebook.

I have Reddit.

I have friends.

I have friends?

Had?

I'm an eternal doubter.

I don't think I was ever a good friend to anyone in my life.

I wouldn't know where to begin.

I never got the manual or the quick start guide,or for that matter, for life itself.

My wife has caught me with tears brimming.

Looking at her.

I find her beauty too much to take in.

Even as an abstract concept, she is pure sensory overload.

She understands.

She comforts me by making a funny face.

By making beauty a momentary concept. 

By replacing it with something silly.Childish.

Its a secret only we both share.

So.

Why do I come here anymore?

 

Perhaps to pose questions to myself.

And perhaps to shed enough to lighten my existence.

Heaven always turns into hell

http://www.cabinetmagazine.org/issues/42/wiles.php

Snowflake

If a song written by a songwriter, produced by a team of producers, performed by a bunch of artists and marketed by an even larger group of corporate entities and promoters can describe perfectly who you are or how you feel, do you ever wonder how unique you really are?

Einstein the E.T

"I do receive much criticism from the outside world...but this does not really touch me because I feel that these people do not live in the same world as I do"
-Albert Einstein

Haiku

Your amnesia
Is my deja vu,
We are meant to be.

I try to
salvage my mind symphony,
Few notes remain.

White xmas

Oh what I would give ,
to be a caucasian for a day!