So here we are…

That is all on my mind,

my incomprehensible being

of nothingness and madness

and staggering complexity

for which I know nothing.

A few scribbles on a blog

a few mindless words

that may or may not have meaning to me

or to anyone else

I’ve given up for now,

until I try another day when I have a new energy,

when I’m no longer tired of avoiding people

and tired of being alone.

the candle flickers,

the reminder of ice.

Ice and fire,

a mixture of winter.

A battle over comfort,

a battle over living or dying.

Fire and ice live side by side.

The flickering of the flame

a beacon in the black night.

A beacon of hope where there is none

but deathly cold stillness

the incomprehensible mutter of winter.

I could forever remember you,

I could forever remember what you mean to me,

I could begin to disintegrate tomorrow and never remember another thing,

my life is full of stops and starts,

It ends and it begins again.

I know not where to place my next thought.

You are my love, but you are my question mark.

What is love but a chemical reaction?

A chemical that seperates us.

We are dealing with each other.

Love is tolerating the other’s faults.

My agony results in your questioning.

My inability to answer is my lasting impression.

My final memory will be incomplete,

because I have never seen you or held you.

I sit here listening to Lights Out Asia
wondering where I am.
I can’t be far from where I should be.
I feel I’ve left behind where I should be.

Winter is darkness.
Darkness comes early in winter.
Without sunshine, my thoughts turn towards the dark
much earlier than usual.

Loneliness.
Being alone.
I could be surrounded by people and still be alone.

My thoughts turn inward,
where there is nothing but the chill of winter.
A fire that fails to start,
firewood wet with sadness.

there is a time when I can’t write anything, because everything I write has been written before. I can’t write what others have wrote. I don’t want to bore anyone with mundane, repetitive crap. I can’t write during these times, because I feel I can’t say what I want to say. I am mute, I am without a pen. I am frustrated that nothing comes to me, nothing is inspiring me. I have said what I wanted to say. Does anyone really run out of things to say or write? Beauty compels me to write, but I lack the proper vocabulary to describe it. I hope it goes away tomorrow. I am uninspired.