November 27th, 2009
Something egocentric has taken is claim upon me.
Every word you write is meant for me.
Every thing you say is said to me.
Evidence, everywhere, it’s about me, I see.
Me, me, me.
In this disheveled state I’m being too sensitive.
Yet sensitivity is my soul. It is the very beast that shows me things before they occur. It is the collection of experiences I read which foretells it all: foreboding and clear.
And ecstatic.
It’s that sensitivity to touch. I am a sensory person. I can as easily turn it off as I can command the sun to stop its shining. It’s that sensitivity to words, reading into everything I see. I am an analytical person. I can as easily turn it off as I can direct the clouds to flow. It’s that sensitivity to sound. I hear you when you do not speak. I am clairvoyant. I can as easily turn it off as I can wish gravity to STOP.
If wishes were horses…
I would fly away.