Also:
It's one o'clock in the morning, snowflakes tumbling up and down through the darkness outside the window, I can only see them up close, obscuring the distant glow of the streetlight, tossed and turned by the wind, and they remind me of a wild joy, they remind me of standing beneath the lights in the park, watching that eternal dance and laughing for the joy of life, and I am here, and there's an empty grapevine on the table, and a sheet of numbers scrawled between the edges of feathery, sharp, black and swirling sketches, writing that looks more like conspiracy every day, and bed looms in the colder corners of the house, full of wood shavings and fouled sheets and oddly shaped footprints on the floor, and piano lurks in the edges of my mind, lulling me to wakefulness.
It's like standing in the middle of a road, no landmarks anywhere in sight, wondering whether you were on the right side or the left before things started spinning, it's like looking at the sky for leading stars in the daylight, all too bright to care about your perceptions, it's like singing in the city, where the air is full of smoke and corners, watching, see you don't invade their space, a concept only cities could've dreamt to being, and the people wonder at the dreams of their own places, the space that takes up just a little bit of life, you'd never miss it if the story hadn't pointed it out, belike.
It's the drawing of the graph of something you don't know the meanings for, it's the sketching of the abstract, rather than the numbers you were told, it's the patterns in between the meanings, it's the patterns in the pages in the lines in the cubic space of three dimensions, where the clouds are more than shadows on the horizon, where that grain of sand has more angles than the snowflakes that we draw, where the possibilities are only as endless as the lenses can bend them into being, it's the fractal beauty of life in the space outside the minds' confines.
Crossposted from Dreamwidth
It's like standing in the middle of a road, no landmarks anywhere in sight, wondering whether you were on the right side or the left before things started spinning, it's like looking at the sky for leading stars in the daylight, all too bright to care about your perceptions, it's like singing in the city, where the air is full of smoke and corners, watching, see you don't invade their space, a concept only cities could've dreamt to being, and the people wonder at the dreams of their own places, the space that takes up just a little bit of life, you'd never miss it if the story hadn't pointed it out, belike.
It's the drawing of the graph of something you don't know the meanings for, it's the sketching of the abstract, rather than the numbers you were told, it's the patterns in between the meanings, it's the patterns in the pages in the lines in the cubic space of three dimensions, where the clouds are more than shadows on the horizon, where that grain of sand has more angles than the snowflakes that we draw, where the possibilities are only as endless as the lenses can bend them into being, it's the fractal beauty of life in the space outside the minds' confines.
Crossposted from Dreamwidth