So many similar inferences where I am oblivious
Is this how the older sisters see their younger brother
Are his unfathomable abilities on the same plain
It is that time, at the end of the day, after an evening of reading, writing, eating and watching television; chasing opportunities for self-reflection, chasing ideas for onwards extrapolation, searching out what isn't there anymore, what most likely was neither there before.
But it doesn't hurt to dream does it, and these are the thoughts that precede the dreams; these are the my self becoming aware of my most inner and intimate self.
When I do go back to what might have happened, what might have been meant by those soft sensual words and o so tender embraces, what might I have implied from those passionate looks, and the nooks and crannies of physical progressions.
So many illustrations that I can use for illusion
So many commentaries that one day I might replicate
Is this how the young boy overwhelmed his family
As his indeterminate talents exceeded all expectations.
It is that time, in the clear light of day, after a morning of working and buying presents; losing, or leaving behind any detritus from the former, any joy from the latter.
Such that now we one might think of oneself as a writer; not a Colm Toibin or anyone heavyweight, but as a lightweight who lets the words drop onto the page as snow might fall, without story or setting, without hook or strap line.
Not even time for my self to to engage with my inner, or my intimate self, for now all I do is to look forwards, towards the next virgin page, to the next empty notebook of a life yet to be lived, of actions yet to be determined, of loves and lusts yet to be chased, or reinforced, or discarded.
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