I have forgotten about language, the playfulness of it's nature.
I elongate it's vowels for my own communication. They protrude like spikey fruit upon branch of wilted tree.
To ears, other than my own, it sounds like music.
I think it's time I allowed myself to open up and to stop with the green grass philosophy which dogs my brain, like a constant, broken motorway. It's destination unrevealed until the finality of my arrival.
Open stretches of water alert fear in me, there is something beautiful but, deathly about them.
I often associate this spectre with the end of life, as if i have somehow experienced it before.
perhaps...in a previous existence, if i believed in things like that.