Droplets

As I currently type and as each of one of my fingers extends to a key in some sort of rhythmic pattern in order to relay to you my thoughts, my lover is in his warm cozy bed & my other half is at home preparing to make the two hour drive to grace me with her loveliness tomorrow morning. Life is good.

The rain is pouring down outside and lightning is lighting up the night sky as it stretches into oblivion. The thunder booms and shakes my foundation and it’s in this moment that I realize how blessed I am.

Lately I’ve had a lot on my mind. I always have a lot on my mind, but more so as of late and it's been making me sick. I’m known to analyze everyone and everything to every square inch but it’s not always healthy. Walking into a room, I unconsciously and unintentionally scan everyone and everything in it without even a mere glance. I can tell you conversations that 3 different groups of people spread across a room are having, the unfortunate outfit a lady is flaunting, how many times the creepy looking guy has glanced at someone, and how many sips a girl has taken from her Diet Coke. I don't do it on purpose I suppose it’s just the way I function. Details mean more to me than most. Details are the make up of everything.

I believe my mind works in overdrive.
Sometimes I can't even handle everything that goes through it at once.

I’m always the one the people in my life come to during a crisis or when they need a good talk, and I don’t mind it in the least. I want to be that person. Yet, when it comes time for when I need to talk to someone or my head needs clearing – I keep my mouth shut and my mind brews and spills over like an overflowing coffee pot. Messes are made from these spills which in return leave me cleaning up after myself. So much wordy-analytical-theoretical-analogy-reasoning garbage. And God, do I know how to make a mess.

Writing is where I clear my mind, where I let my words flow. Flowing out through the ventricles of my brain and spilling over to the grip and swift movements of my hand or into the tickling of my fingertips onto this keyboard. I wish I could show someone some of my thoughts, maybe someday I will. But for now I only scribe these thoughts deeply into the recycled aftermath of long dead trees. For they can't see or tell. I’m afraid it’d be too much for some to take in, nothing cruel, gruesome, or even inappropriate. Just an understanding and mind frame beyond what most could grasp or even begin to understand.

God, there’s no such thing as stability, there’s nothing promised, nothing concrete here. How can we prosper with that sheer fact?

Once every couple of months I go through this stage where I’m tired of constantly refilling the bottomless. I get tired of eating, knowing I’ll only be hungry again. I get tired of drinking, knowing that I’ll only be thirsty again. I get tired of sleeping, knowing that I’ll only need rest again. I get tired of the same old music knowing that even the "new" will eventually be categorized with the "old." There’s something that never gets quenched - never gets fulfilled. Always hungry, thirsty, craving and longing for something or someone, when nothing lasts forever. We despise, mourn and try to prevent death – even when we know that it’s inevitable. We long for true love yet hurt like hell when it goes wrong. Our bodies, minds, and emotions crave and long for things that this life will never be able to give us. The way that this world works, the way that everything is only a momentary fulfillment – that is how I know that we are created for another world. This is not home. This is not my home.