Out Of Stasis
And the first thought that enters a head on a lively afternoon of inconsequence; of worries. Cracking open the shell and letting the new wings flutter around is highly daunting. Very much like learning to fly, if feet and legs and arms all count in movements slicker than movement itself.
And how to answer the queries about hours passed? What has been achieved these past times? My mind draws a blank. I think of saying that I have become a writer of sorts, but that seems rather fanciful. I do not create words, or make anything new, I merely recycle adages and cobble thoughts together, bound loosely with chicken wire and papier-mache, into a strange sculpture of nonentity.
And embarassing, when people may ask how, and where, and when. No. I cannot point people who know to an outlet, a small spouted splurging. Some may understand but I am not willing to let others so easily inside these words, spoken from the head.
I have listened to music. Music which drifts in the clouds between earthly contact and heavenly floatwalks. I have created, yet not in the similar furrow of previous times, where screechedly loud sixstringed abuse of power chords rang writing ragged, but heard of suspended subtlety, acoustic accents and the tiny breath drawn insectually. Placing the ultimate meaning on the head of the most subtle pin, adrift in the mazed and bundled yarns of storytime.
Had I been anywhere of any consequence? Physically…no. Unless the local supermarket and village are of important consequence. But the mind has travelled to the furthest reaches of the universe, upon the backs of turtles, gazing on infinite sunsets from a thousand stars, viewing catastrophic supernovae encompass giant gas globules. I have seen much more into places, into people than is strictly a good idea to see, and travelling with such abandon means one is prone to regress at any point possible.
Prone to stumbling. Unable to deal with people. I have only seen such a small number of knowns in a long time, that it has become a wonder as to the nature of feeling. Can people stand still even through such times of change? Can life approach the scared and wary, teach them how to relax, stop so much friction and anxiety pumping through their veins and halt the world for a second, so their knowns can listen?
Situations will never be the same once more. Not after such events. Circumstances and aspects show sides never before seen and scenes never before set. A sojourn into possible and tactile lands, just beyond a casual grasp. Maybe these times will lull gently in ripples, maybe they will drag forcibly and remove. Time only can tell.
Perhaps a rather more adequate answer would be that I have moved. Simply, and temporarily. Set up a camp away from the grand paths, and exploring the lining of the tent intricately. Not knowing what that may reveal. Making contact with old aquaintances; jabbering the first impediments, scratching out the limitations in jagged words, sometimes finding failing, sometimes finding understanding.
The person they may have seen in times away may appear utterly different to the one sitting before them soon. The same person. But changed, in small and subtle ways.
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