Reticent Pleonasm
A stroke, alizarin.
Bright burning blood red across your face.
Congealing to burgundy.
You meant a lot to me.
But the meaning was sin.
A ruffle of hair, when I should have given in
and let my inchoate soul turn to a nurturing place.
The secular sanctum of us and we.
But my understanding was thin.
The wind only ruffled leafless branches.
Nature is left barren, fingers are twigs.
The branches are claws scraping towards an overcast ski.
Closer and closer to a sky I can't see.
I Write
It could have so easily been nothing, much more easy to assume it's nothingness than the relatively infinitesimal (yet still there) possibility of nothing being something. But why sit here and writer about 'it'? Why try feebly to communication what if it could be 'nothing' when the essential building block of understanding is missing..
What is 'it'?
In this case, 'it' is pretty similar to what you are reading (and, subsequently trying to understand...) right now. "It" really is nothing...
Oh, wait. It is text. Text in many of its forms, a pyramid of implication, an iceberg of realization.
But what is 'it'? This text?
Oh, ahm: it is this.
Not anything really. I ask is it anything physical? No, um it's not, oh wait it is. It might be (pens, paper), uh wait... 'it' was text, wasn't it? Either way now it is text.
It is text. Ok, now that's out the way, here comes the next question in the chain (or the next level in heirarchy).
What is text?
Personally I don't want to say much at all much, much of implication and it is for this that I write.
