his upper mind
Myself being not a stranger to imagery a boy in the pavilion of a mans mind. In tandem to each other, yet somehow not effected by its predominance (influence). A romanticist by fault of my upper story, the book of my dreams always open always being written in while being withheld in the infinity behind my eyes. Curse or gift I know not nor dare to ponder the effects to determine.
With a tremor of enchantment the cloudbursts itself like a dripping firecracker damp and dank .The rain ebbs at the loam and clay to the tone of a billion forefingers thumping with a sudden uplift and stretch in all directions. All in vein to fall back into the ground only to echo the rhythm again. Ah to wonder where all our water has been inside you inside me life to a flower life to a dinosaur. Life and history is all connected.
The brilliance of function is astounding to me as much as we crumble what we make we are a cycle in the universe. No matter how much we try we can never go against our role we are forever typecast. I grin at the truth that we bear in mind to be convinced that we have the capacity to have no purpose in our existence. Selfish isnt the right word but its the only one comes to mind.