There are moments in silence, as there are moments in chaos, where I begin to hear hymns from regions I've never visited. Splintered specs of thoughts that have not come from me - instead, they wash on my shore as a relic from another story.
Usually, I inspect these musings as folly, as escape, as anything but messages specifically delivered to me for care and feeding.
But I've come to believe that it's neither wise nor brave to proclaim that I understand the purpose of the message. So I often carry the thoughts back to my room where I clear a place for them on the shelf, waiting for them to reveal themselves in their own time.
Right now, I have dozens of sometimes-blooming thoughts. In intervals of awakening, one by one, they slowly begin to yawn and stretch their wizened fingers.
I'm in the process of lifting this one off the shelf and into my arms. However, she doesn't wish to be cradled. She's squirming like a beast.
Wrestling thoughts, or nurturing them kindly...either way, diginity is not for the keeper. I regard this foreign thing clumsily as it willfully stares back - impatient for me to recognize what to do with it.
I apologize for the vagueness of this journal. For people who've talked with me in the last 48 hours, you know what I'm meaning because I can't shut up about it. For those who I haven't met with, this is the best description of a 4 hour monologue I can muster.
T.
