My Grain Of Sand

I know now that the setting is irrelevant. Where we choose to open the windows to our souls is no consequence to comprehension. What I am cloaked in is only an unwanted detail. It does not aid understanding. If I wanted it too...

The repetitiveness frustrates me. When will this cloud which obscures my visions dissipate and allow me some respite. I have performed so convincingly but sometimes the facade breaks a little bit.. amongst the hustle and bustle...and I pray for someone to catch a glimpse of it... but they never do.... and at times their conversations, laughter and smiles seem sinister to me. As though I am observing them without the benefit of sound... and things are always more frightful when one of your senses is handicapped.

My head, my ache continues unsympathetically and I succumb to all that is available to numb. There is something comforting to fully accept that my remorse will stay with me forever. I feel severed from compassion. Behind a glass door I look and find others I have left behind.

In my wait for my renaissance, I am taking notes from my own interpretation of lives lost. Trusting the words of souls who have lived and gone. Ghosts of a time that allowed expressions however cruel it may seem.

I fear nothing and at times I fear it all...in the end I seek the things which I recognise. Let me rest but there is no sleep. Is this all my doing? My own design? Have I failed in my paths and am on borrowed destiny?

All is quiet except for the tinkling of ivories...which lulls me to a pretense security. Come tomorrow.. a little bit more will shed. An illusion of choice. After all, does anyone ask the caterpillar whether it wants to become the butterfly?

Will you recognise me in the photos? Or will you see what everyone else sees?