Strange

Strange to write when you know you have written better. Strange to recognize the interpretation of emotion is sometimes of an inferior quality. I wonder if it is due to lack of vocabulary. Perhaps lack of inspiration would be more apt. Strange to write when you have nothing to write about. The sensation is akin to shooting up with low-calibre junk. Think of it as Heroin Light. Yet fundamentally nothing has changed. The candles still burn in silent agony, the coffee dances bitterly on my tongue, you and I still exist under the same sky and the world continues to turn. Perhaps poetry floats in the ether around us - great works only come into being when this ether is inhaled. Concentrations are generally too low. Sometimes there is enough poetry in the air, but no one is there to write it down. Strange how a great pleasure to one is an odious task to another. Strange how the finest words come when my thoughts are abroad. I wonder how much can be communicated with a smile. Strange to let strangers into the innermost corners of your soul, to allow them access to your thoughts and emotions, to hold them up with a trembling hand, to say "this is everything that I am and can ever hope to be" and then wait for their opinion. Poets must be masochists by nature. Perhaps art is merely an expression of the insecurities of the artist. The icy stare in the hard eyes of an unforgiving crowd is a daunting thing. Frankly, I'm amazed that art even exists at all. Strange to think of art as an extension of the psyche. What is the salt of my life to the sugar of yours? What can the expression of my thoughts and experiences mean to you? We may speak the same language, but we have our own individual dialects. I'd like to learn another dialect. I'd like to inhale the poetry of your life. Strange to think of you when I don't even know who you are. Will you change when I know your name? Will the runes of your history become dull and ignoble in the translation? Strange that I miss you without even having met you.