A bubble on the surface, of a story shining in the sun, floating with the ocean waves; Tension clinging on the surface, insides seemingly empty. Waiting to burst, seldom alone; a life, a star, a dot, on the blanket of blackness; to mark a moment unique, before the clock resets, for the millionth time. Circling endlessly or even eccentric, spiralling still, but out of control. Does it have a will? Or is it just a container, for the breath of the abyss, to find it’s way out? Butterfly is a celebrity, when it comes to probability. What about the bubble, does it have an effect too? And unaware of its groove, it goes on to tease, economists and kids alike, like the glittery part, of a relaxing bath. T
Can’t you help,
but weave webs, with pauses and words, graceful or gross, desperate or cruel, web within a web, life made of lives? Sophistry might be fun, or reflex like cocking a gun; but a touch of truth, accidental or otherwise, known or unknown, will burn down the anchors, that hold the kingdom, of your mind, suspended with words; trivial at first, momentous later. If I were to weave too, versions of truth; emotions twilling with reason, mundane with mystic, complete in parts, never the whole; would you bother, to look through them, and jump into the fire, or will a version suffice? T