In the suddenly quiet eye of the clutter.
Why is it I seem here alone,
Just me and a lonely mutter.
Why do I write shit poetry,
Not sure.
So I've returned to my blog, using it this time as a therapy tool, which perhaps is all I've ever used it for.
I'm just seeking to offload a feeling, only it's a feeling that doesn't weigh anything. It's a feeling that everyone else is moving, and I've ground to a halt. That I've become invisible, and everyone passes through me without looking.
It's a feeling that doesn't dissipate immediately after being articulated. It's also a feeling that doesn't make any sense: I'm not invisible. I spend entire days dealing with people, but at the end of it, I feel that none of them will follow me.
This kind of mood will inevitably be labelled 'self indulgent tripe' by a future, productive, energised Gelati Gecko. It may not survive the assessment, thrown into the deleted posts pile without a second thought.
But it's not self indulgent. It's just a mood, just a feeling, and like all of them it places me at the centre. Nothing really strange about that.
But it's not enlightening, new, inspiring, or particularly interesting. It is driftwood.
Night, strange mood.
