There's a cold, white January sky. It's the end of the month and the view outside is fitting. The horizontal blinds through which I am peering provide a stark contrast to the pale air that looms above and I tilt my head in various directions as if I'm cutting and dividing what I see. In the process, I'm able to bisect into sections my favorite tree and I can remove entire floors from the building across the street.
Even if only "I" can see a difference, I am still making changes.
In the distance there is water. It appears dark and empty and I know the depths could swallow anything that was willing to take a dive. If I so desired, I could send my mind adrift in it's currents but because I now live with what seems to be a perennial chill I prefer another option.
Cerebration carries me to this morning. My thoughts flowed under the pouring hot water from the shower's reign. It trickled down upon my body and for just a few moments I was able to lose any shake that I was feeling. Although my eyes were closed, I could still envision the steam as it clung to the window and the mirror where as a kid I'm sure I would've written my name...
However, at this point in my life, leaving a mark is more than just a hand written expression.
So why am I such a bloody mess when I cannot find my pen?
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