In this Land of Almosts,
Time is but a painted face on the wall.
The eyes moving with unbeknownst movement
Static lips twitching with barely held words
Stringy hair billowing,
In an unseen wind,
That envelops the land in mystery.
I feel crippled sometimes.
Living in Almosts
There’s so much within me;
And when it comes without,
It feels inexplicably bland.
Just like a beloved recipe passed down through generations,
Can never be exact in the many attempts of recreation.
There’s a river flowing within me,
Babbling brooks carrying songs of the unsaid,
That when painted in an attempt to be understood,
Looks almost like a static river of rounded proportions,
Ordinary, and a never changing blue.
But the blue in the Land of Almosts isn’t absolute.
And so, is the blue you see, even the blue I carry?
A decapitated arm,
Resting on a painter’s easel;
A broken femur on the gymnast’s track,
Blurred vision through the snipers rifle,
A steaming tongue
on the plate of it’s last owner,
A few penned words
On the paper I write.
Vitally indelible, when within;
Trivially ungainly, when without.
Moments elongate into a mess of tickin' clocks
And my letter remains unfinished
And with it,
A part of my soul
Wrenches in the pain of leaving thought
The eternal struggle,
Of a simple truth in
This Land of Almosts.
I will always be an almost me, to you.
Ah! The bane of humanity. We're all born of the same source, and yet develop so many layers that understanding and perception of another becomes an impossible ring of indecipherable patterns. And yet, what we do not account for is the one blind spot each of us carries as a personal burden of gravity: that no one else will ever know us a 100% too. And it is this knowledge, that we often discard in the helplessness of self pity and importance, leaving our lives in an unfulfilled mess of regrets and continued endeavor towards what consultants love to call "positioning".
Oh! but to escape what's known or to be known, maybe that is freedom.