I write for silly thoughts can be expressive

When the world, at least this portion, spins silent darkness I hearken to the soft ringing of relaxing cilia and supercilia, to the gentle relaxing beat of an eardrum. I can hear a quiet symphony build, mostly strings, light woodwinds, and a brass that is ever-sentenced to play rhythm and undertones, rarely featured, and never above D (frankly speaking I find it atrocious that my mind would confine such a beautiful sound). But, inevitably the cello builds and the violin takes over, perhaps a nicely paired piano can weave a tonal pattern accepted by the night. It is always in question which mood is being played, either one I need, or one in which I lay, as though they were drinks or tonics or puddles to cure or kill the day and leave blank space (I rarely dream well) for the next day, a blank page to begin, apparently I may be in need of a dedication (and I will apologize for run-ons) or title page, what good is a story without at least a working title upon which to build, what man went to build a road and dug a river? how absurd. I.eye.aye.I.
Some days, when it is gray, or the sun has a gentle hand, or is mitigated by mist..or, at least when it can feel like rain, but it has yet to divulge its location, or be brought to light (funny, I think, this pairing of light with rain), or after it has stopped or moved on to water other peoples' gardens, I can see it rain before my eyes, upon the streets and the passersby. Unusual how someone drenched by such heavenly downpours can walk with such a valiant carelessness as to neglect the state of precipitation, or their need for an umbrella, or towel. Perhaps I should be so easy to acquiesce. But I prefer my precipation consolidated, in streams or puddles, lakes or oceans. I do like it to rain. I like my shower (though a good bath is hard to beat). I like to stand in the rain and look up and watch it fall, holding my dry hands out for help and feel it splash upon my fingers and then squeeze it in my hands, holding a place foreign and unkown to me (the world is at your fingertips).
Somedays, when the time is just right and I slow myself down from the bustle of car horns and wheels on pavement, when I can find the right breath and look between the distance that leads away from this moment (I simply cannot find the right wording to describe how a moment is stolen by the object ahead of you), I can see the sunshine. It dances, in a congealed motion (like jello jiggles) with all the other sparkling, dancing pieces of sunlight. It doesn't flow like a river, it sparkles like the sun upon it (or perhaps it flows and I can just see the sun sparkle on the air). Oh, and it does love to dance. Just for your eyes and your amusement, joy, wonder, awe, and attention it loves to dance (though it dances whether you watch or not). I call it sparkles, but you can call it what you like, I'm sure you'd name it something wonderful and more creative than sparkles, or give it some technical name, like, "solar refraction of scattered hydrogen dioxide from a fixed, or nearly fixed, point."
I am not deep. The world is. The more look through both concave and convex lenses, the more you will see- the more you will realize how much is out there, either way out there, or just right there, or over there, or down there, or up there. The puddle reflects the sky to unimaginable depths so long as it is still and quiet.
I have a wish, before I post this ridiculous prose of a post of what I see and hear (I do, actually, see and hear these things on occassion), and my wish is to be what is needed and wanted by others... I have no need for me (and if I said no want, they might lock me up, so I'll leave it at need).. what good is a hammer to itself? or a cup to itself? I was put here, as you were, to serve others and enjoy the music, rain, light. Oh, my stars.. my wishes.

Sky Blue

Apparently this is my 100th blog... Happy Anniversary? whatever the appropriate salutation may be, I had a thought a few days ago which tucked itself into the side of my mind. Consequently, it is not as fluid or eloquent as the first time it rang in my head, but such are the words which become damaged by days of pondering.

While walking down a lane lined by trees and curling into the same trees, I noticed a magnificently blue sky, and began to wonder upon its blue-ness. I declined the scientific explanation in hopes of finding a child-like answer to the question, "why is the sky blue?" Well, it is blue for many reasons.

First, it is blue because blue so perfectly complements the greeen of the earth (even when the trees turn yellow, red, and then brown, it is still a perfect match).

Then it is blue to block the stars during the day so that you may realize that life is what occurs everywhere around you; that it is here, on earth, and so that you may focus on those things around you.

The only star to be seen during the day is the sun. This is so that you may come to understand, daily, that life is dependant on something other than yourself. And the moon also, which guides the tides, can be seen. This is so you may understand that not everything is in your control- there is a greater force which guides us.

Then this perfectly matched blue sky, which by day conceals the depths of the universe, dissolves as the sun sets so that you may wonder upon the stars before you go to bed. And the blue sky remains hidden until morning so that your dreams my have no limits, that you may be without bounds before it gently reminds, with the help of the sun, that there are things here that need to be done.

A Great Canyon

Echoing in fading rhythmic tides: a shout dissipates into a quiet space. This is my canyon. I hold it in my back pocket. Someone will read it (maybe) someday. But being read isn't the point. Being heard isn't either. The point is to release the word like a jumper into a great canyon. And when the echoes have faded, and the vibrations of the words have dissipated. And when your words can only be found in the law of conservation of information (or the internet), then the canyon has served a purpose.

It is true. I make myself naseous on the things I see that I have done. It is no wonder to me that I make others naseous also.

I am a weak individual, unaware of what lies in the depths of me; afraid to go exploring- for those things near the surface can only pale in comparison the ugliness of the things that lie beneath (right?) There is a great depth that is the soul, it is unsearchable and unknowable (even the oceans of earth aren't completely known, and a soul is far more vast than the oceans)

I do love, but not as I should.

I am deserving of love, but don't really think so. I confound myself in this.

I don't know. Of the few things I do know, this is what I know best.

I find it easy to forgive. Certainly a sign that I am need of so much of it. They say a minister preaches what he needs most. If I were a preacher, this would be my message every sunday.

What I love is who you are.(what you have shown yourself to be)
What I love is the amount of you I have yet to know.
What I love is waking up next to you, even when I've failed and you're mad.
I could holler in this canyon a million things I love about you, and I just might, knowing that through the law of conservation of information it will be kept and held by the universe, until it ends, and known throughout the stars that I love you.