Sometimes

Sometimes, or actually, most of the times I feel an urgency to capture happiness when it is almost felt. Or I should say that I try to capture these little "clues" of potential happiness. Then, as I try so hard to "record" these little "clues" with either words or images, I skip the step of feeling anything much too much.

It's frightening to feel; I suppose. It triggers such feelings of loss and sadness, and I become afraid. I start to try mighty hard to gather and store all the potential feelings. Like a well-trained worker, pack them up, and I keep them in numerous little jars. I stack the jars up in the numerous aisles in my head, and I sweep the hallways carefully. I build and build and build what I think that are strong attics inside me. All the possibilities, recorded.

And I look at the jars. My life. How beautiful.

Perhaps.

I wonder what makes and qualifies us as human.

On sunny afternoons, quiet rainy days, in crowds, by myself, I live in my little attics, and I live in this world.

Perhaps.

Sweep the floor; wipe the jars.

Such potential. Such love.

I sometimes imagine what it is like to know and feel the complete face of love, even if the idea escapes me when I think hard of it. I am easily afraid. Afraid, afraid, afraid.

I sometimes wonder what it is merge my attics into this world, and wish such fantasies sometimes my heart grows cold.

Possibilities, destroyed.

Maybe we all get cold sometimes.

Wipes the jars. Clean the hallways.

My attics.

When we wake, we are going to dream.

I suppose I could try putting dreams in my jar, and sometimes

I secretly hope that they won't fit.

Maybe?