and the pen keeps scratching

Why is it it that a month or two ago can feel like yesterday,
While there's an eternity between a week ago and now?
[perhaps it's because I still find last week a little hard to imagine, and I feel the same about eternity,
but a month or two ago felt so good (in retrospect, all I remember are the good things) that I couldn't help but accept and love it as my reality?]

--

Have you ever had twelve glasses of water in a day, maybe more, only to go to bed and find that you're still thirsty, not because the water was that good, but because it's like you never had any at all?

--

I own a guitar,
But the only person I ever serenade is myself.

It's like this blog;
I walk away knowing there is but one person who might read what I've written.
And perhaps I'll hear about it;
I know she can relate
To the secret griefs of wild, unknown men.

(however, these aren't exactly griefs,
nor am i wild, no matter how unknown)

And maybe I won't hear about it,
Though I'd certainly like to.
But like with the guitar, it's nothing new to have a listener and never realize they're there.

I'm not feeling particularly poetic,
Or creative.
Too many thoughts and feelings and too much lack feeling to draw on it all.
It's too much material to actually focus into art.
I think that's why I'm typing this.

--

how it all began
Is still my favorite of my poems,
And why shouldn't it be?
Who doesn't like beginnings?

Afterthoughts are for endings,
So I've decided I'm not having afterthoughts.
Who said this was the end?

It just happens to be a change.

Is this the desert then?
Numbness and thirst would seem to say so.
Except profound numbness makes it hard discern if the thirst is really there.

If this is a desert, it's outward appearance would deceive.
But facades and mirages really aren't that different.
If this is a desert, is the right action to persevere,
Or do you give some things up?

Patience will either be key
Or suicidal.
I'm not sure which yet.

Either way, all you can do is drift.
And drifting is almost always away.

--

So it's still chapter VII,
And the pen is still scratching.