. . .
you are about to say something.
Then,
you don't. Nothing.
Because like most things, I have only grazed fragments of you.
I went to my first concert, expecting to find a break in rhythm. Instead, I remained
in an elusive trance, brainwashed by melody and illusion.
I found myself neglect in crowds, so I searched for you, in the presence of
yesterdays and tomorrows. A blur. So slight, so astray.
I walked through the place you called home, trying to steal the softness of
sounds, the sweet scents, and savour them as stimuli.
I starved myself of separation. A servitude to the looking glass, robbed me of
sensibility, and substituted a frame of pristine symphony.
You are sabotage; no need for arsenal, as I will always surrender. A reflection diluted, all thoughts besieged, a self invaded: you manifest me.
You are simply an idea, a theory, a judgement, that I have altered, refined, evolved. An idea thought so often, it could induce resurrection.
Yet, I cannot sense any of you: touch, smell, taste, hear, or see you.
You are vague: a wisp, an essence, a gist.
And you toy with the idea of me.
I am your echo. Call, and I will follow.
A mere greyness; not enough to overcast.
I sift through you, far from being grasped.
. . .
