Don't believe me? Listen.

People wiser than me have advised me not to write anything after 10pm... if I was wiser I would listen. Then again, they also advise that I should get some sleep; batting a thousand. I think it does present a rather theraputic/cathartic exercise for me to express myself with such a blog as this, but (as always) the question is of balance and appropriateness. So against better judgement and at the worst time possible (3am) I shall attempt the impossible: appropriate, balanced honesty in poetic form.

This is impossible because the very form of art feeds itself, beauty for beauty's sake; but then if it was so enraptured with itself in an outward way it would seem self serving, which of course is not a beautiful thing. No, I have resolved the issue: poetry is best and most honest when it speaks from a position without dependence. Allow me to rephrase that, when a man has what he wants, he can freely speak his mind. That is not to say that he has no interest in things further, only to propose that when he is currently satisfied, he can honestly babble the overflows of his heart wihtout the entangling mess of current agenda.

Outside my window, the rain reminds me of my roof, and teases my ears with the gentle sway of a breeze-tide from an ocean above. The ebb and flow of the rain remind me of time and its passing. The drops themselves slowly find their way down the window, almost longing to come in where it's warm, hands and faces glued to the glass in a subdued slide. We here, find ourselves both above and below this rain. Above, because our purposes are grander, our situation more complicated and our plight known to more than us. Below, because we see only the final milliseconds of what must be an incredible journey in the clouds, climaxing with a prolonged free-fall that automatically optimizes each drop to land with balanced attack on the cheek of an unsuspecting ponderer, not too hard, not too soft. That impact ends the journey of the drop, but sparks an idea. That idea swims long and hard past infancy, and if its strength is steady, gets promoted to thought. Thought, though hardened with experience, must also fight to outlive its usefullness. If the usefullness passes and a thought remains, it becomes a fancy. Fancies, if they are clever, can master the mind's paths to generate dreams and desires, which give rise to many more ideas, thoughts and fancies.

But why do you care? For what purpose do I articulate these notions? Because I don't know myself, and I am talking to my eyes through my hands those things that my mind would communicate with itself. You (much the pity) are a guilty by-stander. ;)