the art of misconception
So for some reason, not quit sure why, i've become obsessed with the music of Loreena Mckennett. It's kinda celtic/renisaunce stlye music but to me it kinda feels as if there might be a new ageish feeling to it. And intresting enough, morbid in way, but not neccessarily dark, just a sence of morbidity in her tone. It's not really sad, or happy music, it just kind of is. Fantasyish. I like it though.
I can't really sleep right now. But I'm super tired. I want to go to bed, but every time I look at my pillow, or even lay down, I can't sleep. Too much going on in the brains I think. But I guess that's the problem, I think....or don't think at time of time.
I do alot that I don't mean to, or realize that I do. Not sure what to do really. I try to realize, yet it still eludes me and a misbegotten has formed upon my hands like the stain of blood on the hands of Mother Macbeth. A knife I've placed, yet I never touched the hilt, mearly unintentionaly nudged the world in the wrong direction. Aparently she didnt like it, so she pushed back. Upon my mind a bruse for with I cannot heal with the absent hand of another. When reached for, slipped away like a misticle ghost forbidding mortal touch upon it's fair timeless absence of flesh. My future like that abyss of the dark outer worlds where you look up and see nothing but a speckle in a far off place that you may never reach. Light years I would travel and farther it would move. My hand everso slipping as always it does. Grip upon this ledge weakening. The mountain side parell. An inevitable catastrophy before my feet, but not knowing what the first step. The path before me blocked by my own doings, and my undoing, a must, an imposibility. Rectification? A misbegotten hope, it seems, that now lays foot to path, and follow blind into the light, and feel like the child lost in all the world while sitting on the front porch.
I can't really sleep right now. But I'm super tired. I want to go to bed, but every time I look at my pillow, or even lay down, I can't sleep. Too much going on in the brains I think. But I guess that's the problem, I think....or don't think at time of time.
I do alot that I don't mean to, or realize that I do. Not sure what to do really. I try to realize, yet it still eludes me and a misbegotten has formed upon my hands like the stain of blood on the hands of Mother Macbeth. A knife I've placed, yet I never touched the hilt, mearly unintentionaly nudged the world in the wrong direction. Aparently she didnt like it, so she pushed back. Upon my mind a bruse for with I cannot heal with the absent hand of another. When reached for, slipped away like a misticle ghost forbidding mortal touch upon it's fair timeless absence of flesh. My future like that abyss of the dark outer worlds where you look up and see nothing but a speckle in a far off place that you may never reach. Light years I would travel and farther it would move. My hand everso slipping as always it does. Grip upon this ledge weakening. The mountain side parell. An inevitable catastrophy before my feet, but not knowing what the first step. The path before me blocked by my own doings, and my undoing, a must, an imposibility. Rectification? A misbegotten hope, it seems, that now lays foot to path, and follow blind into the light, and feel like the child lost in all the world while sitting on the front porch.