Analysis of Untitled8

Water comes crashing down like thunderstorms, a roaring torrent, a blistering flow slowly splintering the rocks below. A swift breeze breathes the misty, moist air at me. Many little droplets form a water-beaded sheet that covers me. They sprinkle down like thoughts of damp and dusty trails, of little creatures like the mouse that stopped to nibble and stare and wiggle its tiny tail. Like thoughts of the trail that split in two. Like the sight of the green, yellow, red trees with brown, white bark crowding ‘round the fall and all its majesty. Sprinkling. Sprinkling down. Down on me. I close my eyes and take a breath and take a step toward the wet storm and let the noise envelop me, let the heavy rain pour down, unendingly, and slip ‘way to chaotic tranquillity, crashing down like water, like thunderstorms, a vessel of lost thoughts, conscious without form, and cling like liquid beads to intangible things, to the taste of the mist on my tongue and the vibrant colors strung along dense aquatic curtains, to the smell of the damp rocks cooking in the sun. Until this frozen world comes undone I’ll keep my eyes closed and soak it in, and push away the fear of when this world turns stale and void of pigment, the dreary future drawing near. That is then and there, this is here and now, and here I stand still, drowning in the infinite possibilities of this frozen world. Smiling a blissful smile, I leave thinking things behind for awhile.