Who Can Feel as I Feel?

Mood, sound, color, emotion. Passion: the soft violin, the obliterating cello, a deep scarlet, obsessive love.  Numbness: white noise, backed by shouts, sirens, two heartbeats, one resting, the other pounding, pounding, grey, red, black, shock. Intensity, the relentless drum, a strong voice, black and blue, focus, white, confidence. This is how I write. I see an object. Any object. Right now, I am staring at a rather large piece of a tree trunk, bark attached, with a face carved on one side. This is what I write: A smooth top, first cut by a saw or axe, then smoothed into lovely perfection. Hair falling in perfectly straight lines, never to blow in the wind. Closed eyes: not dead eyes, but eyes that do not currently want to see. The rest is lost to history, which will then berate itself for something totally unrelated to anything else; all in good humor, you see. You don’t, though, and that’s why you were nodding like you did. It drives me to insanity that the ones who understand never speak up, but wait until the last moment, until even that moment is gone. Who is to blame, us or the hatchet? Did you never pause and think that something is wrong? And now I’m completely sidetracked, but it doesn't matter: that’s history.