Exploration: Nature of my Dig

Exploration: The Nature of my Dig

I don’t have an alarm clock. I could say something poetic, something like My Will is my alarm clock, but what point does it set itself out to make? What effect would it give? That line is like most; overused and fashioning a sense of dignity among a thrown public, only to be voraciously forgotten when language is hacked away, though believed to be expanded.

We all have our own digs in life, but there is no time to think about a dig. No time to think, like the past was never though about inside a small beat of whispered exhaustion. A struggle…A fight, but not a war of tradition inside weak marrow singing for its providential meal. That’s the nature of my dig.

No one ever remembers to forget, and yet they teach themselves to forget that they forgot. To ride up on the right street and play jazz styled mind tricks when the mind specifically asked for blues. It sits up top, close to the heavens, looking and breathing down on you while you paint your own canvas, filling it with desires a killer would not touch. This rounded material hosts its own saga—and sometimes that saga produces shorter episodes of no relation save for sheer bursts of mighty inspirational thoughts along a speedy process. A diary of dead, of life, of any possible think it could ever dream or hold great longing for in its written, beating heart! But never love.

On this sunny afternoon, because it’s always sunny and never dark, they present with broken glass and cramped hands their story—an empire fitting on their fingertips. It is a daily occurrence; an aftermath never dreamed. But who remembers dreams of infrared so vividly to enlighten us on the matter? It all ends the same, on a market in some run down mom and pop shop, waiting with forgotten literature, a quarter tossed at it for lack of pity.

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http://writersisland.wordpress.com/2010/10/09/prompt-24-for-2010-envision/

 

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