thinking about thinking

THINKING ABOUT THINKING

I drift into an unknown imagining,

Speak to myself, I do.

After sunset, when the veins flush with blood,

My eyes finally find sight.

I think about thinking and decide I am gifted.

I ponder over life, I conclude on its mockable pose, how it fools even brainier mortals.

I want to know the feeling of feeling, a feeling that escapes our soul before we could record it, cherish it.

I wish to scream at the unblinking stars, but I remember the gag.

The night, with his kindly gaze looks down upon my kind, who think when the common mind is meant to sleep. I laugh. I feel flattered.

I feel an envenomed buzz of a stone in my stomach. 

Every note from that masterly pianist astounds and I am in awe. I wish I could climb as high as it.

I circle around pointless innuendos and find myself worse off. Where does this end?

Death. Then I don't want it to end.

Life is drama? Perfunctory? Repetitive?! That's funny.

Every blink I record a blip of life. Gone. Slipped away from my nonexistent grasp. I wish I could record it. Darn it, I've missed another. And another. I'll try again tomorrow.

I open a book with a will to read, and I'm already lost in between the lines, drawn by the spaces left by the author for us to be ensnared by. 

I forgot what we were talking about.