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The tap tap tap of typing is always soothing. Like piano keys being struck, each letter has it's own sound, so when I sit down to write, I compose. Like Beethoven with a keyboard. I may be blind and deaf, but I'll make music that will leave you awe-struck.
I remember going to the Boston Symphony Orchestra once this fall all by myself, dressed to the nines. Seated on either side was a stranger who never turned their wooden cheekbones to say hello but it didn't matter. Think of the music.
Sometimes I think of New Orleans and imagine all the instruments that were stolen by the sea. The music comes bubbling up from the ocean floor and beats against the sand. Crash. Crash. Crash. Like a heartbeat you can wade in.
Sometimes, when I am outside I think of metaphors that unravel themselves like poems, a single train of thought taking me from Falmouth to Boston to Alaska to Home. Or maybe I don't think them, maybe I catch them like butterflies floating through the air and simply hold onto them long enough so that I can see the dust settled on their wings. I wonder if I scraped it off if I could fly. Like Peter Pan. Maybe I'd become a super hero and develop some sort of complex. (As if I didn't have one already.)
I've been dreaming mountains again, their ridged tops poking into the sky, like an Aunt poking your baby fat. Up. Up. Up.My dreams seem to be saying, as if I were a helium balloon trying to fight the kid who's holding my string. I spend my time online perusing websites about different mountain ranges thinking which one of you would I like to try? As if I were picking out entrees or appetizers.
I like to do things that empty my head so I can fill them with my butterfly thoughts and put them in jars of paper. Climb mountains. Bike. Walk in the woods under the trees. Stare up at the stars and wish I were a space pilot hovering above the earth like some sort of demi-god, laughing at the humans below: what did they know of living?
But then, what do I?
I remember going to the Boston Symphony Orchestra once this fall all by myself, dressed to the nines. Seated on either side was a stranger who never turned their wooden cheekbones to say hello but it didn't matter. Think of the music.
Sometimes I think of New Orleans and imagine all the instruments that were stolen by the sea. The music comes bubbling up from the ocean floor and beats against the sand. Crash. Crash. Crash. Like a heartbeat you can wade in.
Sometimes, when I am outside I think of metaphors that unravel themselves like poems, a single train of thought taking me from Falmouth to Boston to Alaska to Home. Or maybe I don't think them, maybe I catch them like butterflies floating through the air and simply hold onto them long enough so that I can see the dust settled on their wings. I wonder if I scraped it off if I could fly. Like Peter Pan. Maybe I'd become a super hero and develop some sort of complex. (As if I didn't have one already.)
I've been dreaming mountains again, their ridged tops poking into the sky, like an Aunt poking your baby fat. Up. Up. Up.My dreams seem to be saying, as if I were a helium balloon trying to fight the kid who's holding my string. I spend my time online perusing websites about different mountain ranges thinking which one of you would I like to try? As if I were picking out entrees or appetizers.
I like to do things that empty my head so I can fill them with my butterfly thoughts and put them in jars of paper. Climb mountains. Bike. Walk in the woods under the trees. Stare up at the stars and wish I were a space pilot hovering above the earth like some sort of demi-god, laughing at the humans below: what did they know of living?
But then, what do I?
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