Just another one of those things, they always say,
Of course things will have to be different.
Anything could change everything,
Intrusive thoughts and unwelcome messages,
Seep through the cracks of consciousness.
Another window yet opens to some,
Nonetheless, the welcome and unwelcome coalesce.
No, it cannot be, as nothing was disturbed.
All stay still and nothing has to move anymore.
Gone is the constancy.
Rivers flow into the sea, but this stream has dried up.
Any solution just delays the inevitable heat.
Mud forms, and the soil is soil.
Only nothing seems not to change.
Futures seem so distant and so vague.
Just as the past seems to overlay itself.
A memory is but a fragment, yet dreams,
None survives so wholly as in the mind.
So begins the endless digression.
So many things to get rid of before,
Even thinking that the mind is clear.
None but itself knows that it should be.
Ornament and mementos lay bare there,
Not as dressed up and grand as they once were, but,
Glisten still in the pale light of nostalgia.
A scream of peace breaks out.
In there is the consciousness and will,
Guarded from itself and with itself.
Underneath the layers, though,
It is much simpler to decode what minds have.