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Lost at Thought
*Sometimes keeping focus on the things I care about is more difficult than I like to let on. Who am I to claim to be different and apart from others in a world so devoid of originality? I have no idea who I am or what could define me in a way to separate my being from the expansive nothingness of life, living, dying, breathing, and… being. I know I’m not alone. But yet here I am, isolated and dissociative. I know I’m not unique. Yet here I am, cringing at the thought my mind may have been read, possibly misinterpreted, or worse, understood in a way I have yet to grasp.*
Would you care to have your navy blue essence spread itself evenly throughout the air?
As to become such a subtle taste in the wake of all the other flavors in our breath
Do you find it dishonest, the way we return the colors a bit tainted by the substance in our lungs?
Dampening and molding the sensation into something it's never been
We ask the dissonant textures of the sky, 'Who are you?'
Flippantly, they'll redirect the phrase with indifferent ease
Widened eyes, we'll stumble
Minds dragging and dredging up any suitable response,
The lips let past a soft spoken mumble of a name
*I want to describe a meadow for you. Lush and green with overgrown grass and daffodils. A constant calm with only the noise of the occasional flap of wings and chirping of birds, running rabbits and field mice, wispy cool spurts of chilled wind aggravating the periodic stillness. The sky is light gray with clouds minding a slow pass across the bluer portions. The air is damp with the foretelling of further mist and rain in the near future. Trees, spruce and pine, line the majority of the border, save for a paved asphalt road cutting an uneven line across the farther side, expanding beyond the perimeter of the meadow’s reach. I want you to describe what's beyond.*
Chuckles and laughs reach cotton stuffed ears
A languid shift of the mirage
Prickles against our skin, tense, and terse
We ask again 'Who are you?'
Silence followed by a lackadaisical response of 'Who knows?'
Joyful and easy giggles as the sensation disperses
Become reaware of the loud buzzing sounds of the variety of appliances in use
Heart pounding, blood rushing to our brain
Brush it off
Readjust your shoulder and pat away the lingering feel of dust and pressure
The presence remains, tacks onto our hands and spreads further upon our limbs
A murky paste consumes our flesh like a rash
Irritated and itchy, scratch until it bleeds
Scream until the mind regains peace
*I imagine that the beyond is filled with fuller and more lush meadows. With healthy greenery and colorful arrays of lavender, lilies, lilacs, tulips, daisies, and other wild flowers. I imagine parts of the road to be overgrown with weeds peeking out of the cracked portions and along it's sides. I imagine it to be an untamed mess of nature with little outside influence, abandoned by the creators of the pavement.*
Would you mind to have your orangish-yellow mist mix and blend into the riverbed?
A sloshy brown hardly affected by the addition
Does the thought of merging into the everything run jagged across your vitals
Or rather are you relieved to simply fall back and let the paste fully encase you?
Our name is shared and split, we sink and become unknown, yet accepted
Chattering teeth will still
Senses adapt, here we are nothing
But at least now we speak with confidence
The pull of our breath presses to shout yet again to become undone and separate
Urgently we'll follow
*Though the pessimism deep within me erches and moans that beyond this gray, dim plane of grass and daffodils, there is nothing. That as miles bleed into each other there will be nothing but blankness or a bland retelling of what's already before me. Either that or the path would lead into increasingly malnourished soil, dead grass and wilted flowers, a silence different from the serenity I've known, a silence accrued due to lack of wildlife and an unnatural stillness of the wind. A nihilistic lick at the back of my mind wonders why such a thought fills me with dread. What matters is what I know. I know the grayness of these skies, the heaviness of the clouds, and the humidity of this air. What lay ahead holds no value to me, needs must, and I move on with my gazing of the meadow.*
Our own being yet again, this time our texture sanded down by the mess accompanied by division
We have a name, its ours and we'll keep it close
Define ourselves with syllables and sounds
A name yet to have a definitive meaning
Anxious, we ask the clouded atmosphere
'Who are you?'
© Marah Schneider
Would you care to have your navy blue essence spread itself evenly throughout the air?
As to become such a subtle taste in the wake of all the other flavors in our breath
Do you find it dishonest, the way we return the colors a bit tainted by the substance in our lungs?
Dampening and molding the sensation into something it's never been
We ask the dissonant textures of the sky, 'Who are you?'
Flippantly, they'll redirect the phrase with indifferent ease
Widened eyes, we'll stumble
Minds dragging and dredging up any suitable response,
The lips let past a soft spoken mumble of a name
*I want to describe a meadow for you. Lush and green with overgrown grass and daffodils. A constant calm with only the noise of the occasional flap of wings and chirping of birds, running rabbits and field mice, wispy cool spurts of chilled wind aggravating the periodic stillness. The sky is light gray with clouds minding a slow pass across the bluer portions. The air is damp with the foretelling of further mist and rain in the near future. Trees, spruce and pine, line the majority of the border, save for a paved asphalt road cutting an uneven line across the farther side, expanding beyond the perimeter of the meadow’s reach. I want you to describe what's beyond.*
Chuckles and laughs reach cotton stuffed ears
A languid shift of the mirage
Prickles against our skin, tense, and terse
We ask again 'Who are you?'
Silence followed by a lackadaisical response of 'Who knows?'
Joyful and easy giggles as the sensation disperses
Become reaware of the loud buzzing sounds of the variety of appliances in use
Heart pounding, blood rushing to our brain
Brush it off
Readjust your shoulder and pat away the lingering feel of dust and pressure
The presence remains, tacks onto our hands and spreads further upon our limbs
A murky paste consumes our flesh like a rash
Irritated and itchy, scratch until it bleeds
Scream until the mind regains peace
*I imagine that the beyond is filled with fuller and more lush meadows. With healthy greenery and colorful arrays of lavender, lilies, lilacs, tulips, daisies, and other wild flowers. I imagine parts of the road to be overgrown with weeds peeking out of the cracked portions and along it's sides. I imagine it to be an untamed mess of nature with little outside influence, abandoned by the creators of the pavement.*
Would you mind to have your orangish-yellow mist mix and blend into the riverbed?
A sloshy brown hardly affected by the addition
Does the thought of merging into the everything run jagged across your vitals
Or rather are you relieved to simply fall back and let the paste fully encase you?
Our name is shared and split, we sink and become unknown, yet accepted
Chattering teeth will still
Senses adapt, here we are nothing
But at least now we speak with confidence
The pull of our breath presses to shout yet again to become undone and separate
Urgently we'll follow
*Though the pessimism deep within me erches and moans that beyond this gray, dim plane of grass and daffodils, there is nothing. That as miles bleed into each other there will be nothing but blankness or a bland retelling of what's already before me. Either that or the path would lead into increasingly malnourished soil, dead grass and wilted flowers, a silence different from the serenity I've known, a silence accrued due to lack of wildlife and an unnatural stillness of the wind. A nihilistic lick at the back of my mind wonders why such a thought fills me with dread. What matters is what I know. I know the grayness of these skies, the heaviness of the clouds, and the humidity of this air. What lay ahead holds no value to me, needs must, and I move on with my gazing of the meadow.*
Our own being yet again, this time our texture sanded down by the mess accompanied by division
We have a name, its ours and we'll keep it close
Define ourselves with syllables and sounds
A name yet to have a definitive meaning
Anxious, we ask the clouded atmosphere
'Who are you?'
© Marah Schneider
