Ticker tape thoughts.

It is not uncommon for me to get lost in a word, a feeling, a page or strange gaze from a pensive mailman, hurried and busy but detached in his eyes.

One thought leads to an explosion and before Om prepared at a desk or with a pen, the ideas and questions fall like ticker-tape.

I, only one recorder, run frenetically back and forth, waving arms and curling my shirt to hold more; grab more. Never can I catch them all. A mass-genocide of creation and lost beauty fall, fluttering and flickering as if to celebrate their own indifference to being validated.

I'll snap back outside of my head because my coffee is ready at Starbucks, or the Beamer honked behind me for a green light. It is only a flash, but I see the remains of lonely and crumpled ticker tape ideas. They litter the ground around me and I've no time or capacity to clean or gather or sweep. Like all grief or inadequacy, I must look on to let go, for I have let go of too much to wallow in loss.

Instead, I walk away from the parade of my mind's kaleidoscope. The dead papers, books and poems all collectively wave a vibrational goodbye from the celebration that never was in hopes that we meet again.