Understanding

I don’t understand most anything.

Don’t understand much at all.

And maybe, probably,

That’s meant to be

My Fate.

To understand...well...

One needs wisdom

Perspective

Insight and maturity.

See these pockets?

They’re inverted inside out

Empty.

I’ve come to accept

I’ll never know.

Instead,

I feel.

Wish I didn’t.

* * *

Who am I?

I've been listening to this song over and over and over again and again:



The song is called "Promise" by Ben Howard:

And meet me there, bundles of flowers, we wait through the hours of cold
Winter shall howl at the walls, tearing down doors of time
Shelter as we go
And promise me this; you'll wait for me only, scared of the lonely arms
Surface, far below these words
Maybe, just maybe I'll come home
Who am I, darling to you?
Who am I?
Going to tell you stories of mine
Who am I?
Who am I, darling for you?
Who am I?
Could be a burden in time, lonely
Who am I, to you?
Who am I, darling for you?
Who am I?
Going to be a burden
Who am I, darling to you?
Who am I?
I come alone here
I come alone here

Who am I?
Who am I?
I come alone here.

I come alone.

* * *

A Quiet Season

It caught me by surprise. A late-January thunderstorm. We don’t get all that many ‘round these here parts about now.

It was a fast and furious affair. Lightning, thunder, rain smashing against windows. All in all, a most curious affair in a season noted for frigid cold and snow.

Though, in fact, there’s been little snow and hardly any frigid cold to speak of. This has been a dodgy season. One filled with day after day after day of damp and drear, dirt, fog and lethargy.

A quiet season.

It dawned on me, just a few days ago, that my days have been silent. There have been no organic sounds. Branches haven’t creaked, winds haven’t whistled. Songbirds fled south months ago.

There’s the sound of the furnace shoving air about. Not much more.

Silence has infused my marrow.

I drift as if a lotus-eater. Each day quieter than the day before. No words.

* * *