When I Dream, It's of You.

Today has been cryptic and crawling and strange. I've slept too much. Been in the open blue skies too much. Been gobbling up words too much. Today is a day of excess. I don't really like that. ays are to be stripped down to the bareness for which I am in love with them. I'm in love with a lot lately. And the rawness of anything is something I love. That bare, folkish feel... it makes my heart alight with joy. The words have made friends with me today. I pray it stays this way. I could use less cryptic, through. But maybe it's better when those around me can't decode my heart's musing, can't conjure what my mind has devised. I like it that way. I am a puzzle. A bundle of contradictions and false mental calamity. This feeling makes no sense in my mind, but I'll grasp onto it with whatever I might muster up.

I have made the horizon my goal, I thought as I rode out on my bicycle. It didn't make much sense, but as I rode into the coming night, away from the sunset, I realized it made perfect, maddening sense. The horizon is what I shall long for always. It's distant and mysterious. Unattainable. You can never reach the horizon. It's that thought makes it my goal. To stretch beyond my human capacity and extend my hands into that unknown. To capture a handful of that uncertainty.

I swear I could say things like this all the night long, my fingers flying furiously over the little keyboard, urging the keys down to make my words and phrases. The alphabet is my secret code. It's my language. It's my of communication. These keys. This type box. The words nobody reads but that still spill forth from my fingertips. They don't stop, I can't make them stop, they aren't mine to command. They will cease when they wish. When my thoughts have slowed from torrent to trickle. When sleep threatens to collapse my eyelids. When the clock warns me of the impending day.

Tomorrow could be just as winning as today, or it could sink back into the average, and I could lose the words that are now pouring into my brain. I wade through the mess and pick the most pleasing sounds. I string them together. They make sense. It's a process I have come to love. Words are my medium, the written verse my messageboard. And I'm rambling now, and I have been for a while now, but it's all that I can fathom right now. Words. Type. Blogs. I am the slave to the medium.

And now I will retire. I will slink up to my bed and slip beneath the sheets and somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, feeling with leave me and I'll be just a puppet. And that's when I'll slip into slumber. Then and only then. And I suppose it shouldn't be too bad, surrendering my emotions for the better part of the night/early morning.

So I bid thee goodnight, sweet dreams and much happiness. Adieu.