A Story To Start

What led him to choose the path he choose to lead. What force was beneath him that allowed the snap of the fingers within his hands. The air con blew around him, the whimpering of air streaming through an endless void. What was he doing,? where was he going? What was this perpetual journey he had set out on? What was his past telling him? Why were his thoughts coming in fast like the wind on an endless journey? He knew why and he knew when, but somehow he knew neither of them. Was chocolate his motivator to keep the key board typing and his fingers thinking, was that why he was driven to write? Or was it something deeper, something altogether different? It was a crazy force that spun his mind and didn’t tell him what direction he was going. It was the camera lens behind the camera that sneaks views into picture. It was his simple joy to weave words together like the waves of the ocean overlapping one another on their way to a distant shore. He liked the way that thought could be put together with superfluous flow and how the mind could conjure this creation. It was an animalistic desire to do this. It quenched some deep longing in his soul. He loved language for the same reason. The thoughts could be generated by flips of the tongue that rhymed to a beat unimaginable to the thoughts surrounding them. Yet the words were soft like the wind on the sea or the trees on a mountain, ancient in their discourse, warm in their tone. Would he know no end to his existence? Was time a mere representation of space crammed with purpose? That is what is mind thought up everyday of every hour, and yet there was joy in those hours of purpose. He liked freezing images sending them to the world letting others observe. The mere sunset was something of a snowflake where each time was a different dance to a different beat. There was temptation and oblivion to escape from. He sat on a couch for many hours in silence except for the humming of ticks on clock that strung character into the room. There was a characteristic about the way his eyes blinked that hinted at a normality in his thinking. The key of his thinking was not the think. For thinking too much constantly drove him into a series of complex workings of the human mind, which were hard to decipher at best. It was by doing these simple ramblings that he was able to free his mind and let the supreme work on their own. It was at these times that life lingered on linguistics and languished the lamentable lines of disintegration. How had he come upon these words? What was his fascination with the serenity or everyday speech? What mind would dock such things in discernable grace and leave the cupboard open for more paintings.