Jabberwocky
Frumious Bandersnatch
I wasnt really sure where to post this, because it isnt poetry but it is words and a reflection of something i was thinking about. let me know if i should take it down.
I inherieted in a way a life when i recieved the books from my reciently departed neighbor. Looking through them i began to feel sadness thinking this man shared so many interests with me. Seeing books i had read thinking did he read them while i was reading them. I was beggining to become sad more for the viseral experience of it than anything else. I never met this man and in fact not alot of people had. He was found dead after three days of decompossing, and the only kin he has was the landlord who wasnt related to him, but none the less that didnt stop said man from having pictures of him throughout his house.
I saw other parallells, he had list upon lists of things that he wanted to do, financial charts, journal entries, phone number all scrawlled in the manic way that those that read the collection i recieved could appreciate. He at least by his choice of books would have been a fine companion reading about social reform and the evolution of spirit, About abuse and love and the nature of the science in between. He was a lover of art and a hater of oligarchy.
His tastes ran red, with magic thrown into the mix. He thought of the past and the reflection it had on the future. He wanted to do everything and at the same time accomplished only a few of the things.
So i sit on my couch looking at this man and his collection each book telling a story about the life of someone who has come and gone, someone with whom i feel a kindred spirit. I say a silent prair and offer my thanks for the gifts that chance and probablity has bestowed upon me, open the first book and laugh because out of all of the intense books in his collection i choose to start with Truely tastless jokes......
life is funny sometimes
I inherieted in a way a life when i recieved the books from my reciently departed neighbor. Looking through them i began to feel sadness thinking this man shared so many interests with me. Seeing books i had read thinking did he read them while i was reading them. I was beggining to become sad more for the viseral experience of it than anything else. I never met this man and in fact not alot of people had. He was found dead after three days of decompossing, and the only kin he has was the landlord who wasnt related to him, but none the less that didnt stop said man from having pictures of him throughout his house.
I saw other parallells, he had list upon lists of things that he wanted to do, financial charts, journal entries, phone number all scrawlled in the manic way that those that read the collection i recieved could appreciate. He at least by his choice of books would have been a fine companion reading about social reform and the evolution of spirit, About abuse and love and the nature of the science in between. He was a lover of art and a hater of oligarchy.
His tastes ran red, with magic thrown into the mix. He thought of the past and the reflection it had on the future. He wanted to do everything and at the same time accomplished only a few of the things.
So i sit on my couch looking at this man and his collection each book telling a story about the life of someone who has come and gone, someone with whom i feel a kindred spirit. I say a silent prair and offer my thanks for the gifts that chance and probablity has bestowed upon me, open the first book and laugh because out of all of the intense books in his collection i choose to start with Truely tastless jokes......
life is funny sometimes
