A wall of noise hits him, but he hears nothing,
his head fixed downward, pen in hand.
He notices nothing, but is aware of everything
for almost everything means nothing in that moment and yet one thing means everything.
Is a picture really a picture or an interpretation of life
and life interprets pictures as images of hate and love.
Hand in hand they are united, cancelling, powerful.
And so this inner monologue continues in my head, overdrawn and overspent,
finding precise detail in the smallest event
and yet failing to come to a succinct point,
failing to make my thoughts and ramblings joint.
I feel the need to scribe my each and every thought
so every last moment I remember is caught,
scratching the paper of its incurable itch
making knowledge and history ever rich.
Yet once it is writ
and the ink has dried
I continue to sit
and try to decide
what next is on my mind,
what next I will send,
yet I will never be able to find
the ultimate end.
For I can never stop writing
both by choice and by burden,
scratching the itch, never slighting,
wondering when I get to call it curtains.
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