Alas, I am a poet uninspired by a poet's muse. The rabble of mundane life breathes into me…I don’t breathe. Hmm…trickling is what it’s doing. Rain trickles down from the sky onto me. Tiny streams flow down my forearms, wrapping around this way and that way as they make their way—three ways there—to the ground. HA! Fools, my clothes will intercept you, they will soak you in, they will…is this where my joy springs forth from now? Thwarting Rain?
Rain, yes, trickling rain pools into pools of water that accumulate into larger puddles—oh, I wish I could see the ripples of the rain drops as they join their brethren in a catastrophic destruction of ego. Concentric circle after concentric circle after concentric circle spread out, never able to stretch to their fullest before they collide and cancel out with another ripple, each on their own journey of edge exploration. Porous here, not porous enough there. Puddles abound; everything dulls, yet shimmers; that strange roar-like hum; the world is wet. Sadly, the wetness of the rain escapes my senses. It’s coldness is sheathed, but I can remember that rain is cold, is wet.
Tricks of the mind weave through mine, yet no anchors reveal themselves. Weave, unravel, weave, unravel. I know I can’t feel, and I know my memory can’t be trusted. Did I write this when rain trickled down, or am I writing it now while the moisture succumbs to dryness? Or rather, am I writing this now as it trickles down, or did I write this after the moisture had succumbed to dryness? How different are those inquiries? Are they different at all? You decide, for my memory has just suffered a most grievous insult above, and now refuses my entreaties of peace and reconciliation. I can't remember why I started this thought. That happens too often.