A Pity

Deep within the silence of nothing
The lost crestings of mirth
Abandoned in darkness
Fathomless light

It is the mark of a dream
Surely it must be?
There are the clouds
Or perhaps it is a bath of mist?
A storm of cotton balls
Or is it just snowing?

And there is the call
A cackle, a screech
A mirthless laugh, piercing
Or did a boulder just thud?

I cannot tell
What was that shadow?
Where has that bird gone?
Did it disappear within the sky?
Swallowed whole by the atmosphere?
Or is that water, a fish, hidden now in the depths?

Are we upside down?
Standing in air?
But then why have we not fallen?
Oh, what a mystery this is to me!
But, wait now, where are you going?

I wonder how long we can survive on on our own.

Questions flit past my eyes and cluster my mind with no where to go, but I wonder how many would be comfortable blurting out random questions amidst those they barely know?

It is not unusual to talk to oneself, but how many would answer herself? How different is it from exerting the concentration to create an invisible friend?

But I can barely write them, and even now it hurts to type them, for I have injured my finger. (On my left hand of course, my dominant hand. What spite.) Six days ago now, and still I can neither bend nor straighten it without pain. However, I've taken off the buddy tape temporarily due to my own worries.

My finger is a stranger to me. Streaks of blue paint the sides of it from the base to the but of the nail. One side is oddly smooshed, like when you press your palms against a pain of glass, and unusually wrinkly at the bottom. The entire digit has a grotesque, yellow hue to it and the knuckle is wrapped in a bruise. It bothers me.

I grow tired of these thoughts. What I need is a distraction. What circulates within the minds of others?