I wrote this awhile ago; don't know if it's finished yet...
It was about how I think. Not sure what else to say...
~Ro
-o-
Need to flow, like a river running a groove through my brain matter. Warm or clear, circuits of synapses, smoothing a trench through the softness.
It leaves behind traces, wetness of me, left on the walls of soft grayness.
And in each droplet, a story or feeling or chemical reaction that happened, in a little wet swatch that will over time dry out and then only leave an imprint on the masses of masses of input that has already been left on the sides and walls of the stream.
trains of information, strung along on invisible connections, found by tracing back only feeling. A balance of thought and nothingness- located in the lower back quadrant, or the middle and right, or the upper and back right. Or the non-spot, blank, in the left and upper/middle. Sometimes it is specific, others it is just trusting the synapses, and a special way of waiting, trusting in the dredging up of old things. I won’t forget.
tastes that are smells, colors that have feeling, touch that i haven’t experienced, but is still linked. All are real to me, and all are stored. Linking dreams, whole worlds, are trapped in my head, written in chemical.
Need to flow, like a river running a groove through my brain matter. Warm or clear, circuits of synapses, smoothing a trench through the softness.
It leaves behind traces, wetness of me, left on the walls of soft grayness.
And in each droplet, a story or feeling or chemical reaction that happened, in a little wet swatch that will over time dry out and then only leave an imprint on the masses of masses of input that has already been left on the sides and walls of the stream.
trains of information, strung along on invisible connections, found by tracing back only feeling. A balance of thought and nothingness- located in the lower back quadrant, or the middle and right, or the upper and back right. Or the non-spot, blank, in the left and upper/middle. Sometimes it is specific, others it is just trusting the synapses, and a special way of waiting, trusting in the dredging up of old things. I won’t forget.
tastes that are smells, colors that have feeling, touch that i haven’t experienced, but is still linked. All are real to me, and all are stored. Linking dreams, whole worlds, are trapped in my head, written in chemical.
You've come a ways since the blue shelf with items placed on it.
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