Words woven....
Sometimes I hear these conversations in my head. You may think I am crazy. When I am doing the most mundane tasks I start to catch snathes of...words, lines, poems...Once, when I was walking to college when I was 18 I heard a poem whispered in my ear and practically ran to college to write it down. When I was sat in my garden a year ago I heard the poem whispered to me that I posted over at treewitch recently. Perhaps in ye olden days they called this the muse, the one who drives you mad. It's more like a waking dream, in words. Anyway, this is what I wrote - I am posting it here without amending it, I am posting it as it "came" to me when I typed it just now, so forgive spelling mistakes and punctuation. I am posting it more for myself than anyone else, so that in a year or two I can look at it and say 'Ah, that's what it meant...' I wonder if it is some inner part of me trying to speak to me? I don't know.
She keeps faith alive inside her and calls this hope. It is her anchor to the safer place, though she doesn't give to it voice or logic or reason. It calls out to her in the chill of the night and soaks her skin in it's salty membrames of nothing. How can it defy all her deeper instincts, her guard, her rational hidden spirit embedded in dust and waste. If you called to her she would scream and her voice would resound of the canopy of hearing and vision would be a shard of glass splintering her sight of you. Do you hold her down in decay and wastelands? I rather feel that you do.
Why are you here, conducting your experiments? Are you the speaker or the voice? Do you give sight to my vision? Do you give taste to my habits, my spirit hidden in you knows you and you it. And yet you keep her there and call it safety, call it hope, give it sanctuary where there was none to begin with. But she doesn't hate you, she is the still small voice within you, the one who speaks when you are silent, in the deepest part of your mind, in the deepest recesses of thought in the labyrinthian caves of being. It is to you that she calls and when she hears you she knows you not. You are her anchor and the mystery, and I rather think you defy her and love to see her floundering in the dark. You who are both states, neither here nor there, neither solid nor liquid, constantly moving, forever changing, always hidden. Listen.
She keeps faith alive inside her and calls this hope. It is her anchor to the safer place, though she doesn't give to it voice or logic or reason. It calls out to her in the chill of the night and soaks her skin in it's salty membrames of nothing. How can it defy all her deeper instincts, her guard, her rational hidden spirit embedded in dust and waste. If you called to her she would scream and her voice would resound of the canopy of hearing and vision would be a shard of glass splintering her sight of you. Do you hold her down in decay and wastelands? I rather feel that you do.
Why are you here, conducting your experiments? Are you the speaker or the voice? Do you give sight to my vision? Do you give taste to my habits, my spirit hidden in you knows you and you it. And yet you keep her there and call it safety, call it hope, give it sanctuary where there was none to begin with. But she doesn't hate you, she is the still small voice within you, the one who speaks when you are silent, in the deepest part of your mind, in the deepest recesses of thought in the labyrinthian caves of being. It is to you that she calls and when she hears you she knows you not. You are her anchor and the mystery, and I rather think you defy her and love to see her floundering in the dark. You who are both states, neither here nor there, neither solid nor liquid, constantly moving, forever changing, always hidden. Listen.