I am none but the salt for the sanguine abrasion
I am the finger of the hand that keeps the wound wet.
I am the finger of the hand that you never forget.
I am the finger, the hand - the mad persuasion.
I am none but the king of repetition.
Sometimes a verse strikes a cord. There is an amazing effect that stringing words together creates. Every once in a while it creeps up and ambushes you when you least expect it (something I've very readily related to emotionally for the past X amount of months).
A simple verse read in years pass can cause not even a pursing of the lips, as the page is lazily flipped like a shrewd shopper over a Tuesday mailing flyer or the reaction of a repetitive motion as the reader looks for the key tagwords, something that can be an orchestral accompaniment to the ennui of the moment.
Or is it that you are no longer the same person, who flippantly kept searching for a specific theme in that book? Perhaps when you look in the mirror, the reflection you gaze upon holds no semblance to one you donned; there is a vacant look in the eyes which didn't reside there before. Sometimes your skin is no longer a suit that fits snugly like it once did. There are creases and wrinkles where the corners were once rounded smooth.
It is then when you realize you are a changed person and you no longer expect to have your return ticket stamped, because you have forgotten what it was like at your starting point. And you know in your heart that no matter where the next destination may lay on the globe, it won't change the shadow whom you have become.
ARTIST OF THE POST - Marc Jaffee. Since he is the one who scribed the verse, I should give him his due.
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