Every day a dream must die

I always hate staring at the blank screen, wondering how I'm going to birth an idea. In many ways I'd rather eat fire than to try to have someone understand my mind simply because there is not patience in a world of apps and instant messaging. I grew up in an age where the Elder would sit your down and share a story that would sometimes last for hours and would raise more questions that answers that have sent you on a journey inward to understand one's self. Today I have to threaten my son with unimaginable to pry the phone from his hands as much as Charles Heston felt towards his gun.

Youth, always wasted on the young.

And yet, I stare at the screen now and wonder if this is where I want to go with this writing. My head is simply filled with much thought that I seem to believe that must be shared and yet due to my lack of diction I can't seem to find the word for wordless ideals. I've always have said that I have a silver tongue and golden fingers and yet I find it hard sometimes to simply say what I think without getting lost in the details.

There are moments where I get lost in my thoughts at time. Moments of insomnia where thoughts run rampant and my voice hurts due to treat of atrophy and lack of communication. Moments where a thought takes me hostage and does what it will with me. These moments the walls crawl with my thoughts and words lose their means as moments repeating them and wondering what syllables make the work have weight and which one are there to appease phonetic sounds.

There are moments that I am lost in facts and reason, starved from poetry and the complexity of language where men use words to woo, rally the weakened soul, and seek a higher claim that connect ideas. These moments I wander a figurative desert that deprive me of multisyllabic words that is the life essence of my mind. I can not be force to be content of bread alone, much less Drink if I'm to be condemned to live in the How rather than the Why. To do so would only force me to fall upon my own sword with a mumbling of words to be lost in time.

I stare now and wonder if my point has been made. I have already made alterations and changes to what I have here and deleted complete paragraphs. I dumb down meaning in some sections while regretting my actions. I'd rather to be understood than to make a finer point and hidden meaning to a generation who find waiting for instant microwave food for a minute without complaining. I yearn for the moments of time where I find one of my soul and mind where time has lost meaning and value, to share ideas and thought with as much fervor as some women exchange clothing. We allow time to creep by as we question the economy, the futility of politics and human behavior. We share line from film and literature and speak of the Romantics and simplistic simpleton that Wordsworth was. To find one as my own always reflect on my that I will live and die alone, unfulfilled and and slightly embittered knowing that I would have to find this in masses and live without the Salons of Olde instead of finding that one to share and challenge my mind as it should be. What a life will I live?

I'm content with what I have placed and have given up on some thoughts with a false promise that I will return and introduce it again as much as lightning will strike twice. I'm used to such abandonment, knowing that there are moments in which I rather sacrifice for the moment rather than the detail. I understand that meaning of small things has always been a passion of mine, not understanding how people can over look the small and rich purpose as one would remark pearls before swine. And yet, how would you deal with pearls? What purpose would they have if not to toss to swine other that lay upon the neck of sows? The moment frees us from the limitations and shackles of life. It offers those condemned to a blinded mind filled with instant gratification which does neither. We suckle from the teat of ineptitude and mediocrity with displeasured smiles that stretch too thin and mask inner pain and horror of the thought that this is as good as it will ever get and yet they suckle on.

Who else would you place pearls before if not swine?

I review my spelling now and I question if it is best to correct it or to simply leave it in a missing and fluctuated. Mayhaps a bit of imperfection would make the point more passionate in plea, expressing the need of the thought to be held rather than the delivery. After all, are not mad men simply men who had ran our of borrowed time? I still search for words that seem out of context and place knowing that they will remain hidden until I pass upon them with a nonchalant glance and will inspire a feverish impulsion to find and right what I find is wrong. Few have seen my madness and yet call themselves my companion of any sorts. I learned that I battle my windmills alone and would not ask for a Sancho. Our crosses are our own and must be carried.

I've read what I have written and decided that my thoughts are ugly and have no worth. The feeling of pain and disgrace has caused me to understand my labor of several hours has bore no edible fruit and that this will not survive in any evidence. There are moments that I've written thoughts that I have deemed magnificent in verse and diction only to see them removed from existence with misplaced finger. I've always consider it the action of a wicked deity that sought my words an abomination of thought and emotion as if Poseidon commanded to crush my bottled messages again the rocky reefs. A thought aborted and condemned to never see the light of day. I will sit in my chair and shed an anguished tear and my foolish attempt to give the world something of myself that I actually believed would heal, love and argue my cause that I matter to something or someone. That my own existence is not of naught and that I actually matter in a world would rather see me in past rather than now. Time has moved on and yet I still live when those I love have left me here to endure. My sentience is to walk the world longer and December may not come. Blood may only be repaid in blood.

And so it ends, not in a bang, but the stroke of a key.