I’m trying to write this book containing the millions of pages in my mind. It goes on weiving through the house the trees, through space and time.
Time as long as I’ve known it and even long before. Past times, past lives, collecting memories I don’t recall, yet I feel I lived them all.
Colors and shapes and silouets I see, I feel I search for. Some I feel I will never find, others I will never escape.
My dreams are like a life long run to or away. No where I stay is safe. Always looking for something I can not see with my eyes but somehow know what it looks like, at least a little.
Familiar pulling me in to a world I know not of or is this that vague world I have been torn from my security and randomly positioned to live a life that is soposed to be all new to me.
Something went wrong, because flashes of faces become clearer as I age, my body seems set in its ways and much older than I am said to be.
I fall asleep and feel as if jerked from somewhere else and slammed back into this me that I call myself. This me harder to reaquate myself to.
Although my mind is full, my page …..blank.
K~Ckdhalo
BoxOfBrokenHalos CkdhaloDesigns 