a weight that rest gently on your breast plate. you wouldn't really notice unless you certainly opened your mind. a place that cannot work if closed, a membrane pulsating with mystery. a book i'd like to read over and over again. keep down from the shelf and always with me. never ending pages, blank, waiting for the pen to the paper to etch studded thoughts onto the page and when the darkness washes over that book it'll be okay. ill-mannered ways and i can feel whatever this is, infecting me. all of me. my entire being washed over with my thoughts. no longer contained just in my brow they are reaching out throughout my bones. my marrow is in a tizzy from the exposure my mind on fire. my veins pulsing curiosity and urgency into my heart making its beat off kilter, sputtering life into my. a forest fire within my person. an unrecognizable knot sitting on the edge of my lungs making my breath heavy. wake up sweating and i think that is ideas still being processed coming up for air. a heavy little something sitting there on my breast plate. thoughts and ideas bubbling at uncontrollable hours and slumber once easy, now seems impossible too consume with a zooming mind. full speed waves crashing into me, pulling me under but showing me these wonderful colours so how could i question their motives.
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