self notes and an axe without an edge

sometimes i sift through my own thoughts looking for something to smile to myself about
when i come up empty it's like waves crashing on a hollow beach
there's no shoreline or anything, just empty space
imagine a beach suspended inside of a black hole or orbiting jupiter
no one there to hear the anti-sound of its single psuedo-success
no one present to watch the surf spray up into space
for just one second obscuring the stars in the background

thoughts pass before the lens of my inspection
things not quite like clouds blur my vision occasionally
like two dimensional fog
like translucent nightmares
or the entire life of the most ancient palimpsest spread out upon its own singlular age-old surface
a mix-mashed soup of words, languages, chicken-scratch on the cellar door of my subconscious

just as one cannot throw stones into a stream before fishing a hole
one cannot muddy the waters of thought before sitting down to compose

the axe may cleave the wood in twain with one blow
other times it may take many

.............................

I do not feel myself at times
the me that was has shrunk impossibly small
locked up in a corner of this new consciousness
with only shiny baubles of hazy memories to fawn over
and shreds of something like a life to which to dedicate these sporadic tears
yet the me that still is progresses, digresses, divides into cells of selves, knowledge, fears
the me that still knows how to be is fierce and fragile

the axe in my garage is not sharp or well-versed in the ways of wood
it is, for all intents and purposes, a virgin
and thus barely capable of dreaming of a world it does not know
it simply rests, head down, against the tool bench
waiting for the day when it may rise to fill its function
like the wind and a sail meeting for the first time
on a perfect day they can only imagine