Midday thoughts:

Tuesday there was a sweet yearning to hear my own thoughts.

To sit with my brain and skip along the lines of prose that I know its dying to create. After days of reading what to think, or observe or believe, and going to sleep before ever opening my ears to let in the sound of my own, I think I’m going mad.

Mad to ooze with personal feelings.

To get up from out of bed, walk to the kitchen, gaze out the window and be spiked with desire to pick an orange off the orange tree.

Walking to the garden, stepping only on the stones my feet end up on, lifting my crazy eyes up the base of the tree, feeling around. Grabbing, twisting, pulling until a bit of my own personal desire lets loose from the wrath of the tree’s warmth.

From the wrath of my mind’s insipid flavor.

Eating peanuts on the couch can suffice for now. Later I plan to take up space and make “art”, whatever that means. Or maybe force some more words out onto the page, enough to tell myself I did some thinking today.

At least of my own fruition.

I don’t know how else to ease this contradiction, my merciful yet unforgiving lust to detach from what I’m constantly fed, and intwine at last with the ever-lasting loop of thought spreading around me.

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