Free Write #1

Sunrise block quoted armadillos walking across frozen ponds without a goal in the mind. 

The wind slowly caresses barren branches who never see the embrace of a lovers welcoming warm arms. The will to be, the will to believe, the coursing shadows of forgotten memories racing beneath the flowered adornments of casual underpinnings.

How long will the earth turn? How long will the words flow before they are dried? Which way is up when the moon seems to laugh? Seventeen hours of mindless wanderings, 18 years of confused fumbling. The love of a woman, the tender smile of a close friend, the cool morning, the gray clouds. I wonder what the day holds in store?

The coffee warm, sliding down the gullet without leaving a trace. What use is it really? I've indentured myself to its graces. The browser window hangs open without a mind of its own, now use, no use. nose use. what will be the outcome of this porcupine? Head down in the dirt, head up on the mountain.

Tears drying from decades past, hours spend reading, writing, fucking, laughing, crying, breathing, sleeping, eating, dying. I wonder in the absence of time is there still ice? What will there be? What was there? How many in the hall? What shall we find when we turn over the aging rock? 

Scratch, scratch, scratch the face, a pause of words, a lapse in thoughts. 

Free-writing is hard, the never ending flow of the keys without focusing on where one was or where one is going the only goal to write until the time is up, to write without purpose or plan or goal or message to write, to write to, write to write. What will the day hold? I wonder, I wonder what Winnie the Pooh would say. And Tigger too.

Ah, calling a friend soon, the morning chat, a pleasant ritual. The sun may come out today. A week of clouds, wool, ashen, strangling the mind, delightfully depressing. Such inspiration sadness brings, much more than joy. Much much more than joy. I will never disparage depression, it is the eternal muse, the ajf ;ie f;lals fie of writers and poets and philosophers and revolutionaries.

I wonder, I wonder, I wonder how long how long will the whipper-will sing? How long, how long will this go on before it becomes something else?. Leaving no traces, the time jumping between branches, whithered, blooming, strong, weak, mutating into some other creation before my very eyes without intention or direction simply being, simply being, who really gives a fuck anyway? 

Life is short, eat cake, get laid, drink rum, enjoy the water while it lasts. Enjoy the beaches while they last. Enjoy, enjoy. I wonder, I wonder how long until it's all swept away? How long, how long, how long?