Something or Other

I hated when the doctor was late for dinner. His square jaw and hollow cheeks made me angry, but his eyes and soft hands made me melt.

I felt them a few times, his hands. The first was with a handshake; a welcome into his home. The second was in passing; a mere brush of his hand against my arm in a hurried rush out the door. The third time I had fallen asleep in the library. The doctor found me laying on the rug, surrounded by papers and hardcover novels. I was barely awake when he stood me on my feet and, gently holding my hand, led me out of the library and down the dark hall.

I’m wondering if I should even bother taking this anywhere. Leave a comment or two and let me know if this intrigues you at all, so I know whether or not I should continue with this. Not too sure.

T. DM

 

Loose Leafs of Paper

Loose leafs of paper are

desirable little carriers

of hearts and of spades,

and last wishes or lists and

thoughts,

of carriers of words, and

diseases that run rapid to

infect those who are not

savvy to contextual modes,

taunting logical minds.

Loose leafs of paper are

endless options to the

imaginative ones, with endless

hankerings for the rustic and

unexpected. They are a

catalyst for the inquiring

mind, whose overactive thoughts

are set loose among process

of elimination.

Loose leafs of paper are

the scattered remnants of

disorder, covering the writer’s

floor, after a mad surge of

anger or of genius.

T. DM

 

See. Feel. Think.

English: Female House Sparrow, Bairnsdale Aust...
English: Female House Sparrow, Bairnsdale Australia. Taken in September 2006. See also Image:House sparrow03.jpg. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What I see around me.

The wind is casting its heavy breeze and smothering the hot summer air, while my legs stick to the damp grass leaving a tickling sensation behind. The sun is beaming down, touching my skin slightly, warming my coffee and kissing the garden gently as its crops ripen. There are no noises now, but the blustering of the wind and the chirping of brave birds who dare to challenge its speed and sway.

What I feel.

My body
is still but for the motion of my hand, as I glide my pen along the page of my
journal. I cannot see what is being written for the sun is too bright in my
eyes, and I must trust my mind to jot down precisely what I am thinking. This in
itself is a vulnerable task, as it restricts me from proofreading and altering
my mistakes. It stops me from hiding from my errors which I so often do, and it
opens my thoughts to the truth.

What I think.

I have taken in
the scene around me and heard no noises but for the wind. I have used it to
center my thoughts and transcribe them blindly into my journal. I have finally
learned to stop hiding from my own vulnerability, and have made myself visible
to nature. I can share my true thoughts with the page and allow it to be inked
permanently,

but I will not share them with you.

T. DM