Janel's Place
Sometimes sparks of genius just have to be typed.
Friday, January 16, 2009
That's all I have to say about THAT!
No December blog. No time for that there was. Finals HAPPENED, let's leave that week of terror in the past and not talk about it. Then there was Christmas. Then there was New Years. I remember there was some good egg nog. There was work. There was the flu. There were so many different people's cats to feed. There was Bryce.
So it's late and I have 3 days of moderate freedom until the next phase of the great rat race begins. The rat is a little nervous. And the rat is a wee bit lost and awfully sad about some things. I'll bet some random wording could be accomplished and I could achieve a blog without having to be direct. I hate being direct.
Who knows where words will go,
Who knows which ones are right,
Who knows that chasm between my thoughts and the ones I made with words.
Who controls the choice of memories,
Who controls the sequence of songs,
Who organizes the sequence of my thoughts and the places they choose to stop.
Who decided that I cannot see ahead,
Who makes me take a risk,
Who tells me to keep talking until the end, and then to wait, to hurt.
The roses wilt, the sun comes up, the typing passes time.
The time is slow, too slow to think, too slow to wait, too slow to move.
A ray of hope, a glass of beer, a place go, a thing to do.
I can't see, but it's okay, what's here is one more day.
What's real is incremental trust, incremental thanks to Who.
Who will guide my steps when where I'm going is still... dark.
(0) comments
So it's late and I have 3 days of moderate freedom until the next phase of the great rat race begins. The rat is a little nervous. And the rat is a wee bit lost and awfully sad about some things. I'll bet some random wording could be accomplished and I could achieve a blog without having to be direct. I hate being direct.
Who knows where words will go,
Who knows which ones are right,
Who knows that chasm between my thoughts and the ones I made with words.
Who controls the choice of memories,
Who controls the sequence of songs,
Who organizes the sequence of my thoughts and the places they choose to stop.
Who decided that I cannot see ahead,
Who makes me take a risk,
Who tells me to keep talking until the end, and then to wait, to hurt.
The roses wilt, the sun comes up, the typing passes time.
The time is slow, too slow to think, too slow to wait, too slow to move.
A ray of hope, a glass of beer, a place go, a thing to do.
I can't see, but it's okay, what's here is one more day.
What's real is incremental trust, incremental thanks to Who.
Who will guide my steps when where I'm going is still... dark.
(0) comments
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