The stars have no patience for city lights and smoggy skylines, crowded streets and a world of street lamps. A few bully their way through the hazy shine of smoky brightness, the smudge of fluorescence blocking out the sky, and these stalwart few weakly murmur the words of stars. But far away from all the noise the celestial orbs twinkle with mischievous guile, for they've tricked the verse and we so susceptible.
I'm wordless tonight, and time thickens, it thunkins, it thunkmms until thinking and mumbles and time coagulate into a jumbled mess, a scab of life that I can't stop picking at, itching until it bleeds out again, slows, and clots in persistent recursion. I'm a spinning record past the tracks, a looping program, a train, a drudge employee, a migratory bird, following the same preprogrammed ruts ad aeturnum.
I've been starting into writing stories again, which is probably one of the reasons I'm writing less and also writing less poetry here. I don't really enjoy posting pieces of things here unless they are parts I particularly like, or are things I want to work remember for a later point - or if they are stories that I created stream of consciousness while blogging. But I'm excited, because it has been a while since I've written stories, and getting back into the swing of things feels really magical, as though each of the pieces of writing I've been working on are fitting together, and the puzzle-pieces of writing are beginning to make more and more sense the way I see it.
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