Tea

As I boil water I flash back in time to the most primitive of days when our forefathers did just the same for a soothing drink. They gather the herbs from the earth and put them into the water that whispers with steam.

The herbs bleed. The water steeps into aroma, flavor, and genuine color. Two hands preserving sanctity. I sip slowly as to not provoke the tempered tea and in return it warms my soul.

Make Believe

I make believe sometimes. I used to make believe  a lot, but not so much anymore. People look at me strange when I'm shopping in the grocery story talking to myself, 

"Affirmative, we have a bogie on aisle 10, requesting backup to take down the salsa."

More recently I try to make believe when no one is around, or even awake for that matter. I'll take late night showers with all the lights off. I pretend I am in some alley, blind and must find my way around in the darkness. I am poor and have no clothes. It begins to rain. Acid rain, it feels hot. I have nothing. I lay there for an hour waiting, waiting for the rain to flood and wash away the street dirt. I have nothing and feel content. The world is falling apart and I feel safe.

I feel safe in my imaginary place.

Moon

You are quiet and soft. You are the reflection of a star. Today you are seen, my back on my trampoline.

Glow, grow, and know that I am watching you turn new. I am conscious of your subconscious. I am your flower in the dark. Stay longer so that I can flourish. I will be your company.

My Nightly Shower

I think about possibilities. Ideas cascade my thoughts like the hot water does to my face. I breath in a deep resonant steam as if for weight so that I don't float away. Nothing to cloud me, only vapor, I am open to new and wonderful beginnings.

I am brilliant, to write a book. A book of many pages to be announced a novel. But the pages have few words. They are simple. A novel is not written with verbose diction. It is written with words. Words are all I have to offer.

I am intricate, to follow the path into the woods. I have deep scars of things written on me from long ago like a tree through the years of young lust and old love. These scars are not painful unless they are ignored. When I do, they cause a great deal of white noise that I can not shake. As if to rattle residual water out of my ear, I violently thrash my head only to be found a fool and water still remaining. However, when I encourage my roots I can feel the sun warming my future as I grow closer to my past, to our past, to nature.

I am profound, to sing a song. The overwhelming power of melody and harmony. A wave of sound and soul crash down on tightly wound heart strings only to play along with the cadence of the symphony.

I am bound. These are only thoughts, these are only ideas, these are only words, and this is only a shower. The towel works in a way to dry up my ideas and to crack my thoughts. I quickly dehydrate into a withered realistic man. My clothes assure a safe keeping as if in some way doing me a favor.

How do I present myself naked to the world without becoming callas and scabbed by the rough grounds of criticism and scorn? The answer surely inhabits Utopia.

Sharing

I finally realized why it is that I enjoy blogging. If I am honest with myself, I am living many different lives. I have lived these lives for quite some time. These alternative life styles aren't bad, but I guess it is all in ones perspective. I feel at peace with my life and the decisions I make, however, I know that some of those surrounding me would not agree if they knew exactly how I lived.

It is liberating to know that I have exposed my deepest thoughts into the open. I have, in a sense, tied my secrets to a balloon and set it free. Someone may some day read my inner struggles and might, for a second, sympathize. Sharing human emotions may be all we have in this life.

Most of the time I feel I am protecting them from needless despondency. Other times I challenge myself with a looming thought of self artifice. "With years of evil wear, has my mind given in to the indulgent pleasures of this world?" This is a question I would ask myself at the genesis of my independence. A sense of searching has always been encompassed in me. I just often wonder what the odds are for me to be born into the "right" religion. After the birth of my carte blanche, I felt more real than I ever had before. I felt that my blank piece of paper finally needed color and understood why. This was the start of my discord. I was raised to keep a pure white paper.

As a child I was taught and saw battles of good and evil. I was taught the value of children's eyes and minds, only now to be told that those same eyes and minds are naive. This makes me wonder who is truly naive. How do I know, if I know nothing else?

For now, I will live. For as long as I live, I will love. That is all I know for certain.