As Whispers On The Wind.

The days are getting a little longer and I can actually taste the sun setting in the back of my throat. I get so lost in these short, silent days. I sit and watch the day waste away before me, the sun slowly creeping up onto the roofs of the houses across the street. The bare, leafless trees reach for the sky with their spindly fingers spread wide. A little bird lands on the thin branch and it wobbles beneath its weight. People pass by on the street below me and I don't really care where they're going. A bird swoops up from the street and glides up into the blue sky, breaching the shroud of the buildings' shadow and glowing in what little light is left. And then it disappears in a flash of flapping feathers and I am staring again at the empty sky.

It seems I am always sitting still, simply staring at things which happen outside of me, despite me. I soak myself in all the things that might have happened and I imagine them more vividly than I would have even experienced them if they had happened. It seems I am stuck inside of something and I cannot see a way out. I wrap myself up in each silly situation; I imagine a hundred possible things that will change my life. None of them ever do, though. I am always the same simple, sullen ghost of a person I was before.

I am rash. I am quick to judge. I cannot see myself in others and I cannot see others in myself. But, I know that all people are the same in their flaws as they are the same in their functions. I open myself up to be dissected but by whom but myself. I want to feel the close breath of someone who breaths in words, someone who can speak my own words to me so that I can hear them as distant phrases. Perhaps that is where my selfishness lies, in the overwhelming need to hear my words as whispers on the wind, so that I can barely recognize them as they pass my ears.

I am trying to say things I think but in vague terms because I cannot catch their subtleties; I cannot grab my feelings by the throat and hold them down so I can tell what they are. It is, perhaps, that I am overwhelmed by all the things I cannot say. I am floating on the surface of a thousand unthought thoughts. I can only feel them vaguely. They are pushing on the bottom of my raft, threatening to flip me out onto the empty ocean.