I am so lyrical today. Words and phrases shifting over the folds in my mind, rolling from my brain to my tongue, filling the spaces of the room around me, spinning, spinning.
I often wonder if anyone else feels this rush. This liquid stream of words sliding in and out of my brain waves. I can see them. See the thoughts forming these words, see the words form into pictures that stream out before my eyes like a television screen. I wonder if other people hear words like a personal narration, like my string of conscious thoughts forming poetry as I walk, as I breathe winter air, as I study the dent mark on a white wall.
Do other people see it? The snow resting so delicately on the pine tree, the way the wind sits lifeless in the morning, leaving only small clouds of breath. Do they hear the words becoming lines of verse, becoming stories, becoming sentence after sentence in the plot continually running in my head? Do they feel the words in their chests, heavy, pushing to be freed? Do they sense them lingering, hiding in the corners of their minds, even when they close their eyes? Do they fear the words, or do the words make them feel alive?