We exist within an infinitely variable stream of consciousness. These waves that break upon the shores of our perceptions are rendered in an unidentifiable code; literal tangential nonsense, triggered by the most insignificant of factors. It is a surplus of information, a tsunami of jabber that the mind cannot be expected to retain on a daily basis. So many of the notions that occur to us over the course of a day are discarded, hopes of poignancy dashed as they are lost amidst the incessant noise. I sometimes wish there was a tape recorder that could document my thoughts in real time; a needle resting upon the pulse point of the brain, fervently transcribing thoughts as they emerge in perfect detail.
We can almost sense the anxiety creeping up on us, that feeling of missing something as it is happening, before it’s even over. The feeling that we will blink and everything will suddenly be different.
It’s enough to inspire a desperate compulsion; a frantic need to absorb everything as it occurs. To record it and file it away for some kind of secret rumination. To have it impressed so avidly upon our minds that there is a certain scent/voice/melody/touch/taste that prompts the sensation of déjà vu. That implacable recognition that this has all happened somewhere along the line before.
Unnerving, and yet, oddly sentimental.
It resonates and grows stronger in connotative awareness. You remember the feeling, even if you do not remember how.
I wonder if your inner voice is meek or thunderous, callous or sensitive. If it is thoughtful and inquisitive about the world around, or if it is too preoccupied with whatever menial task is at hand to notice as it slips away. I wonder if it recognizes the subtleties in the spaces between the lines. To hear you think with unabashed candor would be the rarest of gifts; the private opportunity to immortalize the half and quarter digressions you thought that never piqued your interest enough to be developed, and were instead dissolved into nothingness. To see you raw and exposed, without the skin of society hanging from your bones and molding you into who you think you should be.
And I wonder if it would be in that the moment in which I found I loved you the least, or the most...
We can almost sense the anxiety creeping up on us, that feeling of missing something as it is happening, before it’s even over. The feeling that we will blink and everything will suddenly be different.
It’s enough to inspire a desperate compulsion; a frantic need to absorb everything as it occurs. To record it and file it away for some kind of secret rumination. To have it impressed so avidly upon our minds that there is a certain scent/voice/melody/touch/taste that prompts the sensation of déjà vu. That implacable recognition that this has all happened somewhere along the line before.
Unnerving, and yet, oddly sentimental.
It resonates and grows stronger in connotative awareness. You remember the feeling, even if you do not remember how.
I wonder if your inner voice is meek or thunderous, callous or sensitive. If it is thoughtful and inquisitive about the world around, or if it is too preoccupied with whatever menial task is at hand to notice as it slips away. I wonder if it recognizes the subtleties in the spaces between the lines. To hear you think with unabashed candor would be the rarest of gifts; the private opportunity to immortalize the half and quarter digressions you thought that never piqued your interest enough to be developed, and were instead dissolved into nothingness. To see you raw and exposed, without the skin of society hanging from your bones and molding you into who you think you should be.
And I wonder if it would be in that the moment in which I found I loved you the least, or the most...
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