blaine not brain: Chasing Through Tosa

Why do I always feel like I'm chasing after someone or something? There is nothing that is running away from me, yet there is something constantly slipping through the grooves on my fingers. I can feel its oily residue when I smear my thumb and index finger together. I smash them together to try to bring back to mind whatever it is I'm looking for. But most of the time the thoughts fade away just like the sun beating on the roads after the so familiar spring rain.

I've got to keep searching. There isn't anything else I can do. I'm always looking and checking in far away places. Nothing is here except the smell of wet cypress. The wetness is so thick. It pulls on my nostrils and leads me farther in.

My feet fall hard in a constant fury of progress. The moss stands up to my endeavors as if to remind me to tread more lightly. Take a softer step and see where you go and not what you seek.

In the clefts and folds of fallen limbs, this once noble flower found a beautiful grave. Such elegant beauty in finality. Every moment and experience dropping from our minds and to the past.

The sounds tether around my ears. I can hear the water drip on the leaves like a clock that has fallen out of time. It makes me move slow and erratic. It's tricky to pace yourself to nature's rhythm.

I'm like those vines. Racing or crawling up the tree. That's dictated by the inner eye.

There are always paths to be found. Bridges in the most unlikely of places. Maybe I'm always searching for paths. Paths that go somewhere but to no thing or person. Even though that flower resting peacefully and so beautifully seems ideal, I can't nestle comfortably into a spot to waste away.

The green is intoxicating to my complicated soul. It makes me long for more.

More of what though? Have I not already acquired so much of what I'm constantly seeking. How can I know what I've accomplished if I still not know what I'm after?

I feel so close to the thin veil that hangs before me. I reach forward to pull it back. I quickly find another and another. It never ends.

The endlessness is alluring. I might be addicted to pursuing what will never be finished. But what in life ever has an end except death?

People probably see nothing other than a man living so aloof and beyond normalcy. I'm like a prickly thistle. Just enough that you wouldn't want to touch me. No time taken to find my tender roots.