These things they cling
Dripping honey down a string
Wrapping the brain
Consciousness swoops to claim
Licking at the sweetness
Addiction sings its sirens song
Calling thoughts forth
Around and around
And nothing is achieved
*poets, writers, we are addicted to words, thought loops, consciousness forever playing with itself.
I never realised quite how addictive and distracting thinking in and of itself can be.
What an idiot and yet
Sometimes we can’t see the wood for the trees
The mind is also a writers greatest tool. We need to grasp thoughts and words from the ether and hammer them into sentences and to do that there has to be a certain free range edict about consciousness or else it would be the same thing we thought about five minutes ago
Sometimes it just unravels, spilling more than it gathers
The eternal leaking bucket