Self-Soothing
The drudgery of dawning – sometimes so elegant and enlightening, sometimes belabored and torturous impatience – always the heavy friction of waves. Of particles as they place and displace in their constant rearrangement, the permanent battle of hope and resignation. Rising up, coming down.
How I write about disappointments – the very act of writing an urgent inking of the sky, even while it fades or darkens, glares or washes out.
Of rejections – their steady dismissal, the missed sunrise/sunset – a glory of chance forever undone. Overlooked. “Wrong place at the wrong time.”
In other words, again. That waves and particles eons-old rumble and bumble about around and against one another, often contrary impulses and contents dislodging, jockeying, a kind of dance seen from extremely close or far enough away, making out of blue or black a purpled-grey tinged greenish pink and orange; or a bleeding scrape of burgundy’d magenta replete with yellowing sears.
Straining can produce glorious things.
The continuous waffling betwixt bright and ominous, stars glittering through their winky charms, or a saturate void. White dreaming pale translucence or deeper colors leaking through. It never stops, the gradients without lines. So I continue in the way that I flow, waves and particles of me assembling/reassembling and what results is what the friction sparks – disappointments and the hope to write them out.
All my Words are Silent 
