There are times, not often mind, that I find words wandering through this wretched form of mine. Not quite the same as the usual flow, nothing happy mind you but nothing so dark or damming as those I ussually know and, if I were honest, I’d say it’s more a question instead, nagging thought that never quite recedes to the back of my head.
Why, when I look around do I see no one near, why can’t I bare the thought, the utter fear, of letting one in, letting them close?
It’s a question with no answer, nor no intended response. For the closest to answering it I’ve gotten is in the asking though even that is quickly forgot.
I suppose the closest I can come to letting one in is letting myself out through words upon the page, to jot down the nagging thoughts to quicken their age, whittle and wither them down to be almost not, just a passing shadow on a cloudy day. Never remarked upon and rarely noticed but I suppose I’ll have to be honest with myself at some point, how ever that time is not yet upon us.