Too much and not at all

I have a tendency to hold onto things for too long, especially as they relate to the opinions, feelings and sensibilities of others. Even when I bare neither intent nor responsibility, I catch myself dwelling on the most inconsequential of events. I believe that it stems from the duality of my characteristic self-consciousness coupled with a certain obliviousness for my surroundings of an interpersonal nature. Recent events  have born this out in a rather dramatic, if extreme example.

Apparently, I am capable of standing in the wake of a full on natural disaster, and yet, still be left wondering, "was it something I said?"

One sentence

In the midst of a stormy downpour, I stand frozen staring back through the soggy mist as rain steaks down my face like tears of regret for what could have been; and then, I remind myself, "it's only water".

Atmosphere

So often my mood rises and falls with the shining sun, then again with the moon and stars. Dusk and dawn, with their expansive beauty, just ease the transitions between skies of brightly lit optimism and those of infinite possibilities. I've never been a much for clouds.

Platstic ball-and-chain

Sitting, stopped at a green light in the midst of an unwanted morning rush. My brain stuck in neutral, I'm unable to engage no matter the force applied. The present is lost to me, fixed on some inconsequential mistake of the recent past. I misplaced my hat and gloves last night.

Z's

Silence slips sideways,
Soothing subtle subconscious simmerings,
Slowly sifting,
Softly shifting,
Sleep.

The Coming Avalanche

While generally considered cataclysmic, there are always preconditions leading up to the event--an over-accumulation of material both too heavy and unstable for the base to hold. Walls are built to contain it and, perhaps, they can be made to work. Mostly, they only exacerbate the problem; creating a condition of even greater pileup. Stresses build. Great effort is exerted in attempts to ignore the situation, but the cracks are clearly visible. Questions begin to grow about the solidity of the base itself. Will the whole thing simply come down? Could the wall itself be the problem? Might it have been better to just deal with each eroding storm as it fell? At this point, these questions appear merely rhetorical. And, here I am, reduced to the passive voice.

Unanswered

Cruising along at 66mph, rain-streaked letters on the rear window of a passing van, their intent obscured by the recent storm. An overactive imagination suggests that maybe they were in reverse--scrawled from the other side of the pane. Morbid thoughts of a desperate plea for help replace the frivolous image of "wash me" spelled in dust. Van speeds away; questions remain.

Is it prudence or cowardice that fails to give chase?

Just a tinge

I wouldn't so much call it humor, more like a slight edge of whimsy. Whatever the name, I prefer my writing to have a certain lightness to it. However, when life seems a bit too humorless, such writing becomes difficult. Writing, for me, is less a didactic pursuit than one of self-fulfillment. It provides some structure to my often circular thinking and helps convey things that my poor oratory skills render impossible. But, mostly, I write because I enjoy the process. I entertain myself with the idea that it's a reflection of a better self, one I can carefully craft to sound exactly as I wish. Of course, its nice to imagine I'm pondering deep thoughts, but really, its more important to simply be able to look back at what I've said and smile. When I've nothing happy to write about, at least, perhaps, I can find some amusement in how I've writ it.