There is an ache in my brain. I miss. I want.

I have nothing new to say. I dig through past phrases, rewritten words to find a language for my thoughts. Its all the same. When my originality fails, I grab a book, I read few lines : “childhood youthtime age & eternity/would open like sweet trees/in the nights of another spring/and dumbfound us with love”. A phrase to snuff an ounce of sadness in an ocean. Someone is bound to misinterpret its meaning for me and project their own, but isn’t that exactly what I’m doing? A stagnant pond is not illogical, it is not unreasonable, it is not depressed. It is veiled, settled so sweetly a layer of green growth masks the third layer of life. Mirror reflections in puddles cease to exist in this static station. And what can you do? Winter is coming to kill off the growth. Shadowing green with grey, proving all is temporary. “Accept loss forever” in the face of a snow storm there is the sun rising and setting and rising until the young buds blossom, where summer was forgotten it again is risen. Will I settle with the pond, stable yet frozen in the arctic, surrounded yet shrouded in the warmth? All options viable but where is the motion? When winter ends will I have a reflection? Move move move.