Yellow Jacket

August 14th, 2006

It pours, just as every life has its own form and own reasons. We all know we could paint our visions. Our nothingness is relevant. Packs of confusion may build up but it dissolves as you freely allow it to. The hard splash of cold mud on your clean body may seem insulting, you voluntarily screech in wild anger at nobody, at nothing. There is no reason at all. But you have what it takes to turn and head back to where you have been. It slowed down. It’s sudden silence makes you deaf enough to hear the loud thuds of the little footsteps made by a little girl downstairs. Swirls of violet and gold and rust, everything may seem blinding and nauseating. The fear you’ve been holding is as good as the the years of how you’ve lived your life. I do not let shame and inexperience cloak my being. I am but a devout wanderer. I still continue to tread along and I have been on the eighths of my lessons. I will die leaving half unknown by me. But I will make it sure that I have reached the other half with no proclaims of regret and wondering. I would have smoked the cigarette until it’s last burn, but the smoke should never cease to mingle with the air. It will not loose it’s ingredient, it is around and I and you and we have breathed it in already.