Sugar coated.

Give me your bad day.

That way I can roll it in hundreds and thousands and dust it with sugar. I can prepare a box covered with shimmering paper. I'll lay it in a bed of petals and gently cover in with tissue paper.

Lets make your horrid day a nice one. Because it's not in charge. And nothing can resist joy when wrapped in sweetness.

Spacial understanding.

Around me are clouds. They waft with breezes unseen, sometimes lurking in a wreath around my head. Sometimes swathing my shoulders like a shawl. Sometimes drifting in through my ears and creating a storm within.

Wondering Wandering.

A day completed.

Confucious.

I like to speak to myself in my thoughts. As a child I often wondered in what accent this conversation takes place. If different education levels change the way in which we spoke to our mind. If the language in our heads is universal or subject to what we speak outwardly. If a microphone were connected to my thoughts, ramblings several voices thick would burst forth, on seperate journeys to different conclusions. And I most certainly would be surprised to learn the things I was thinking as most of the time I struggle to keep track of it all.

I like to create stories too indepth and detailed to be expressed past the medium of thought, in order to try and keep as much of my brain busy as possible. To try desperately to guide it in one uniform direction. but distraction flashes it's wild colour and excitable possibilities and through the window goes that concentration, along with the memory of what I was busy concocting. Woe is me.

Confucious states the mind is your temple, the highest part of the body that makes the hardest problems simple - Black monks

Darn you and your structured mind Confucious.

Rediscovery.

The words came back. They'd hidden behind a wild mind, who was quite content hiding behind the thin veil of forgetfulness.

But once again my thought spills past consciousness to a brightly lit reality. Accidently maybe? Well maybe not wholly by accident but maybe not with full will and purpose.

So noted, ever so slightly tinged with doubt.. I have returned to this diary of sorts. To exist again.

A letter to nobody.

You see through my basics. An eye that's uninhibited, perusing a naked soul.

You steal from me my words. They're held tightly in your smile. Obliterating my vocabulary with every glance at it's perfection.

You spin my heart in circles. Dancing with it tenderly, adhering your step to it's every beat.

You share with me a secret. I know not it's meaning but it's wrapped in simple paper and I keep it hidden behind my shoulder.

You stroke my nervous mind to silence. Soft is the movement, soothing fears and extracting the confusion from worry.

You are the core of the question. Emanating new wonder with your existence and stirring dormant mind and enthusing a sleeping adventure.

You are not anyone nor someone. You are a weakness. You are a strength. You belong to no-one, and yet, with your presence, are everything.

A Year of Other.

Wasting days in a cloak of grey. Wire heartbeat of my mattress, revisited in it's solemn state. Fine mists of uncertainty envelop feeble minds and choke them of thought that extends past the moment. The choking grey that inhibits futures and dares one to stay in a state of pause, of silence, of boredom.

Terrifying is the looming imprisonment of mind in this dusty cage. A prison with no solidity to it's walls, only a block on choice and a haze where dreams once explored. The present attacks dreams of futures brightly woven, wraps them in silencing webs. Sitting in the clouds a mile above the world, phases into being encased in a cocoon of cloud, barely suspended over the carpet of a quiet room.

Days of pain weaken the defence. Weaken the force of imagination. Weaken the smile that follows the excitement of possibility, until only the ghost of happiness tickles lightly the cloaked senses.