Outside my glistening window
While the evening darkens
I seek a peaceful slumber
And my glad soul hearkens
To the sounds of an evening lark

I'm writing free form here. I have no idea what I want to say. I know only that the need to say something is more urgent than my natural desire to remain unheard. There is a kind of mood, a certain melancholy, brought on by anxiety and hints of disappointment. It settles like a thick blanket over your heart, which beats slowly, almost sluggishly in your chest. Times like these come and go. A time to question. It isn't a moment wholly disliked. There is a part of you that finds value in the mental state, motivation to create, and insight into a rich world of substance and emotion.

Phrases float in and out of your mind. Rage against the machine, you view the world philosophically, can I, will I, am I? Eventually your heart settles on certain facts. Not expressed in concrete forms such as words, but the Idea of Him. That's enough most times. Just the thought of Him, His being there. In this world, questions, conclusions, battles, victories and defeats are played out in brief moments, with emotions that move and beat against each other like waves in an ocean, not violently, connected, testing the lines, pulling, pushing, praying, resting.

Moments like this breed discontent, cravings for release from pressure, solitude, company, companionable silence. Worlds of art, like the soft glow of candles, flicker and flame, breathing, growing, pulsing, fading. In the end, you take a deep breath, and the outside world asserts itself. Your mark is what is left behind, the output of a drifting mind, a free form stream of language, like liquid, languishing on the page.