We are waking and sleeping, dreaming and despairing, all in and all without. Who are we? The endless nomadic thoughts take me from one cold endless night to another. What is this with cold nights? They keep me shivering and strangely warm within, the train it rattles the whole night through nameless towns and hills, all I can think of is some fantastical lights , sparkling drops of laughter and my glories. The orange of the sky blending into the ink blue and the grey all around, flying a thousand miles up in the air, and all I want to think of is freedom and love. Mystical stars and me chasing their twinkles, sitting all alone and still all without and all I can think of is some conversations to shoe the night by. What is it with all that goes on within? All I am thinking of is lying flat in a mountain stream and feel the water submerge me in its coldness. What is it with streams and me? You seem to be in my every dream and yet I can't take a dip in you. Like a thirst I cannot quench any of you, my nights, my dreams, the silhouettes I can never decipher, bring me a drink, for all there is somedays, is an old cask whisky to make me slowly drift away on a boat in the sleepy sunshine of evenings, over the stream in my backyard and stare far into the sky and wonder where are the stars behind the dying rays of sun. What is this in my eye? A longing , a determination, a loneliness and also the love of all I have been given. The warmth of so many who love me, the peace of the nights and the self determined pace of life. But then there are dreams and in those dreams are sunlit streams and there is me finding myself bit by bit in my small hilltown of dreams. And there is those whistles through the trees, calling me deeper into the woods as I dither and vacillate on the edges.
