Tuesday, July 24, 2018


Thoughts, like things, have moods and weight, colour, shape, 
texture, movement, size.

On a clear day, thoughts can drift like clouds,
unattached, unfazed, and lazy, 
beyond reach of craving

Or they can be dark as Northern winter,
thorny anchors, onyx black, 
settling in the skull.

On days like this
my thoughts are a black hole of overthinking;
a centrifugal, shrunken mouth that sucks and swallows
every space where light and hope and grace might try to hide;

Most days thinking is a leather-booted army,
stamping its military will across every moment;
it is a crushing machine, a threshing mill,
a self-engorging cannibal,
masticating negativity, 
spawning doom.

On days like this
I try to feel for smaller thoughts,
the ones that flicker, fleeting, fragile,
magical as fairies, elusive as mist;

These are the ones to watch out for,
even if we only glimpse them in periphery.

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