timeless

carp dreams

wet on flesh,
wet inside,
wet all over.

if a fish
closes its eyes,
and forgets it is a fish,
then who can say that it is not just part of the water?

---

it's come to my attention that my first year of college is nearly over.

on one hand, if i try to rememeber my thoughts a month, three months, nine months ago, it could be said that i have changed as a person.

and yet, on the other,
i know that after i've
gone back home,
and am once again sitting
in my room staring at
the ever-familiar
wall,
it will seem as if
nothing ever happened.

nothing ever happens,
yet everything happens.

let me revisit the question of 'why do i write':

previously, i think i said it's a sort of compulsion.
not that an that's entirely inaccurate way to put it,
but i think compulsion is a sort of ugly word.
every time i write, it's the result of
the convergences of countless threads of fate that
have somehow woven themselves into a particular arrangement
of tapestry.
and not just writing.
everything in life tends to be like that. no, it is like that.

it could be said that i've begun to realize that there is nothing to gain. but there was never anything that could be gained in the first place.

---

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