ramblings

I can only hope that I am not defined by the things I do; I can only hope that I am defined as a living breathing entity with the potential to commit actions so often attached to self-definition, but which do not, in fact, comprise one's definition. Still, I cannot live and breathe much in the absence of judgement. I try to live, sometimes, without clause, however I seldom find escape. I must reassure a rational audience of a rational mind, though I posses nothing of the sort. We live in the wake of others and in the others wake we must affirm our own space, which, inevitably, intersects others.' 

I find myself in passing days, a trail, a bookmark, without destination. I find grief in my pockets, remnants of busier thought and time and place. I sit examining it in awe of its surrounding stillness, idle present and jagged past conflated somehow. I'm a leech on my own soul and I watch myself deplete it. Slow and still, gaze fixed upon a fixed reflection that stares back, I listen to a clock that refuses to stop ticking. I do nothing; I am defined as nothing.