Is It Really You ?

This form of writing, this form of story telling is anonymous, it clouds who you are and what you are into the what you want to be.

I drift around, I read some for a while then move on to another, its finding words that interest me at the moment and words that may lead to more interesting words that makes me come back.

One in particular has peaked my interest over the last few weeks, its not a long term interest though as the committment to reading this is too much to give these written words the attention and thought they earn. It is well written, in form and structure, it drifts along with snapshots of places over time, now and then, there and back again*. It rambles into thinkings on paths that seem unlinked but make sense to mine. It follows a chain that flits around until it wraps around you in a crocheted blanket of mumsey cuddles of warmth and toasty musings, melancholy runs through the writing in deep veins and it cuts you unexpectantly leaving you peevish and discontented.

I often wonder who is this person that manages to create these wonderlands of musings, as my untrusting nature and the gut that I rely on to keep me alive screams at me that there are elements of honesty in these lands of wonder but its not really as it seems to be. My Mulder is not convinced, what looks real and seems real is not as real as the writer wants it to seem. The parts of the past are too clear and layered to be more than remembered moments with now depth.

A thread today I've heard before, just a small moment, a tiny piece, its background colour and doesnt flavour the missive beyond a dot of ink. Have we read the same piece, have we eavesdropped on the same conversation, are we having the same conversation. Are we drawing from the same palette when our backgrounds are coloured in.....though mine hangs on the fridge, theirs is in the gallery.

I am watching.

Reading: - Egypt Lonely Planet
Listening: - Bon Iver - For Emma, Forever Ago

* I stole that from a hobbit.