That Was Where I Started Over

1
I catch myself at times midday, being somnambulant
My mind spends more time on things ethereal
My attitude is showing, I’m told I externalized
My thoughts about things that are mostly abstract
Between the world and my internal self I’m distracted
I step to the craggy edge and look over into life

Is that what this has become, such a dreary life?
Am I one in waking dreams whilst still somnambulant?
I watch the news, politics, my focus is distracted
By things corporeal more often than things strictly ethereal.
I am however stuck between a harsh reality and the abstract
I listen to things around me, for sense in the susurus

Is there anything more than that noisy susurus
That eats away at hope until nothing is left but death?
That noise-some beast that rails against things abstract,
Jarring to life any and all who are still somnambulant?
I see myself walk along a razor’s edge in the ethereal,
My foot hangs over, I am lost, I’m only there distracted

I am standing between hope and fear, still distracted
So many different sources of News. That susurus,
It’s no wonder I find such solace in things ethereal.
I find in that realm of unreal, a calm not unlike death,
Bringing life to my thought, though I seem somnambulant
All I can do is inaudibly mumble things in the abstract

My mind thrills and gambols in realms of the abstract
I am transformed by that eternal desire to be youthful,
Rousing myself from the life that has become somnambulant
I find peace with the incorporeal sounds of natures grand susurus,
Made for me by a forest of my mind and things rising from death
To life and I can’t hear the reporters commenting in my ethereal

Their voices a musical movement and dance in this ethereal,
They become a sort of sonorous symphony in the abstract.
I no longer pay them any heed, as in youth I paid to death.
Is it only now that I can block things out, no longer youthful,
Keep them all at arms reach, part of that ubiquitous susurus
That blocks out life and keeps many people somnambulant

2
Media wants the intellect of all to be somnambulant
My mind delves and soars things ethereal
I am surrounded constantly by that gnawing susurus,
Real examples are dropping around me, not abstract
Or fanciful concepts created by those overly youthful
Or ones so near the end they are worried about death

Which turns out to be the main focus, any kind of death
Which in turn turns the viewer into a somnambulant
Zombie, It drains the joy and the pain from the youthful
It makes all men and women into that final ethereal,
We then live only in theory, argue and exist in the abstract.
This is why I struggle against that deafening susurus

Do I stand and listen, block it out, or join in the susurus
The choice rails against me, I would not fear my own death,
The chance to escape and live solely in the unobtrusive abstract,
Letting my body be mummified by my loved ones, not somnambulant
In those wraps of sound bytes now waking me, making me tremulous,
In frustration and fear for forgetting all that once made me youthful

That would be a welcome thought now, me, still vibrant and youthful
I can focus on it briefly, straining, and block that cacophonic susurus.
The tingles of life itself bringing emotions makes me tremulous,
I feared nothing, stood up to anyone, laughed in the face of death,
Let others lie before me, near lifeless bodies I realize are somnambulant.
But that rambles around my brain drawing me to worlds abstract

So I let those thoughts slip away back into that coveted abstract.
I let go of my thoughts of blissful ignorant days when I was once youthful,
And strong in my will to live against and in spite of all. I was foolhardy.
I didn’t know then, but I was part of a different kind of susurus.
That collection of sounds and life that make the mature think of death,
There’s a duality in that both groups are then made tremulous

That thought brings no peace, in the night I’m still tremulous
I seek for solid reassurance, a certain feeling of ancient foundation
That will stave off the recurring thoughts of my own eventual death.
So I focus once again on that state of grasping and being youthful,
To thrill in the spring time and the wind playing in the leaves that susurus,
I may have been rash, but scars are made by the foolhardy

3
Does it break someone beyond repair to be too rash, too foolhardy?
I hope not, in a shiver of this fear my hands become tremulous,
I am surrounded constantly by that gnawing susurus,
It is a thing breaking and building my foundation,
Those things I regret that were building me when I was youthful,
And will continue to build me until that fateful day of my death

So I grow each day and stop watching the horizon for death
I continue to try to be less safe and spend time on foolhardy
And crazy adventures that may make me seem young or youthful
Things that bring anticipation and cause me to be tremulous
As I grow and hurt and live and fall, I build, still build a foundation
Of scars that are signs of internal growth, physically externalized

This is the wisdom I can share, my own life vividly externalized
On my body to show that I did, in deed, live a vibrant life
Worth telling about and being proud that I have this foundation
Whether built on calculated movements or the plans of the foolhardy
I did not act in fear when something caused me to be tremulous,
But I stood with chin high and remembered myself as youthful

So I bring with me to every stage of life; that “being youthful”
Is not something to hide or be ashamed of but to be externalized
In either physical experiences remembered or that tremulous
Feeling that tells me “I’m alive! Yes! I’m taking advantage of my life.”
Whether it be careful decisions, or acts that seem too foolhardy,
I look back on who I’ve become and am glad to have that foundation

It is something I can stand on and move from. My foundation
Which has been built while I was looking or while I was distracted
The imperfection of it, of what it will be, shows I’ve been foolhardy,
The internal struggle was hard, and I can see it externalized
Through the variegated corner stones of my unexpected life
This gives me assurances to not be scared or tremulous

So boldly I walk forward into the unknown, no longer tremulous,
But with firm knowledge of my own personal foundation,
I step to the craggy edge and look over into life
Keeping a keen eye on the slope and future, once distracted
But no longer, I have that wisdom, and new bravado externalized,
I step forward though it be crass, or rash, or even foolhardy

4
I may have been rash, but scars are made by the foolhardy
And the ones that will come still make me tremulous
I examine my character growth, so vividly externalized
It is a thing breaking and building my foundation
Between the real world and my internal self I’m distracted
But this never stops me from living an unplanned life

This is called into question, however, that unplanned kind of life
I am seen as an unknown, unknowable and foolhardy
I act as one who has been socially, terminally distracted
From the ever moving media, now calming, now making tremulous,
Those who once knew where they stood, had a firm foundation,
Now fear and anger, from their world turning upside down, externalized

There’s a lack of wisdom for coping with an upturned reality externalized
Leading people to hide and block everything outside their comfortable life
Never asking if those who sold them their supposedly safe foundation
Bought without a second thought, was built too hastily, or by the foolhardy.
I watch things unfold in media and consider them ethereal.
Are they something to be taken seriously? I am distracted

But didn’t I say that I would no longer be caught so distracted?
They are building on things that pass, they live as only externalized
People, there is nothing material in their words, but only the ethereal
That incorporeal reality that eats away at a good and noble life
Causing people to act and talk in ways that make them foolhardy
Which eats away at and undermines their own foundation

There replacing it is this temporary and information-stream foundation
It does not prepare, teach, or guide but merely keeps everyone distracted
It goes beyond that now, we have a whole generation that is somnambulant
It is not a simple task of comparing what is internalized and what’s externalized
But that we have to ask what it is that is guiding and ruling all aspects of life
Do we live in a real, tangible world or one that is built on the ethereal

This is how I cope and deal: Let their words pass through an ethereal
World where right and wrong are both defined and also abstract
So I can compare their words, their wisdom to my own life,
My own scars and experience. You say I am still distracted,
But my contemplation is because I am considering what they’ve externalized,
And how their words could trick me, fool me, trap me into being somnambulant

Wake the somnambulant to be tremulous finding an externalized foundation
Foolhardy, the ethereal susurus draws them continuously into the abstract
They are youthful, distracted by both the darkness of death and promise of life

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