'...this song I was writing is left undone;
I don't know why I spend my time
Writing songs I can't believe,
With words that tear and strain to rhyme...'

I don’t really know why I’m writing this except that I haven’t really written anything of note in some time, except for that last, rather disjointed and confused entry that didn’t really offer much of anything, like it wasn’t sure what it wanted to be, a half-baked fish, neither here nor there.

In some ways, as strange a metaphor as that may be, this is what I feel like now, a half-baked fish sitting in a forlorn pool of limp cabbage. Alright, I paint too disconsolate an image; to be honest, I’m feeling a little…disconnected at the moment. Not necessarily in a bad way, but I must say that I am quite, quite confused, I think I have got too used to analysing, dissecting, and taking steps back to gaze critically on the larger picture, hands tucked firmly into the pockets of my white lab coat, too used to drawing out clear lines, definite boundaries marking that the area on my left responded in this manner while the section on the right only shuddered briefly.

Like international air space, I need someone to hand me the Treaty, the musty-smelling parchment proclaiming its master’s ownership over this many miles of sky, however far into the stratosphere.

I would like a glimpse into your mind.

You fascinate me constantly, you creature of contradictions. At once polite and vulgar, a top-hat, tailcoat, caveat donning gentleman hailing from ages past, and yet also the coarse-tongued fellow from another land.

Like the yin-yang badge of my old school crest, you waver between two extremes and somehow manage to make them meet, fuse them together.

Part of me likes definite answers, questions with paths and roads that I can see, with arguments that can clearly get me there; or words which meander through streets aimlessly, smoke drifting down the corridor, but come to their destination after a certain point.
Words, words, words. I feel as if I have none left to play with.

Part of me is a traveller with a dusty backpack and worn out sneakers, trudging down an empty highway and coming to a fork wreathed in the hazy glow of night. I am still there, breathing in the smell of road dust and dirt, wondering which road I should take. My two halves have not yet managed to fit themselves together, to come to any kind of resolution to be passed before that general assembly of silent – or not so silent – trees.

We are connected on so many different levels; but with my unforgiving lab coat eyes, I gaze upon that road, and ponder about two vessels of still water.

Still water runs deep, and here you would probably laugh at me, but this eye is roving, searching, and musing. What if the still water became stagnant?

I have no answer to this question; my lab coat is slowly shortening, darkening; maybe it was never there in the first place.

I am a traveller now, and though I have been to many places, and seen many wonders upon many a moonlit night and pink-rayed day, I am still on that misty, damp corner of the unknown map, that place where the night breeze blows mournfully across the moor.

'...as I watch the drops of rain
Weave their weary paths and die,
I know that I am like the rain
There but for the grace of you go I.'

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