I realize that I am not normal.
I love the sound of wind caressing the trees
just before it settles upon my skin
It's like a game of telephone nature only plays with me.
I imagine paintings that stare back from their frames-
Sculptures that get down from their pedestal and pose me in awkward positions as mannequins pass by and laugh.
I wonder sometimes as I sketch, if I am merely someone else's work of art that jumps off the page and alters them.
The painting that stares back.
The voice that you remember when a song stops-
how yours is to me.

I sometimes wonder where I will be buried
and whose voice will guide my echoic memory into a visual encoding of the celestial heavens
I wonder if what I'm doing will flash before someone else's eyes in their last moments
and if enough people have such eyelid camera lenses
that someday the snoring beast that are the people will wake to find that swing sets were always more of a home than classroom chairs, and sometimes, at least in my case, more than the seat at the dinner table.

It's like when you lose a year
to a manifested homeostasis
That maybe hell and purgatory are the only things humans can obtain by their own hands and well-wishing
That Heaven is a rare gift that is obtainable only in a reflection of another's eyes
When you see what a lover sees when they look at you
and shows you the infinite beauty of human fragility

What if all the images your eyes had held
flooded out as you passed away
and all the noises you had ever taken in
spilled down your neck in those last few seconds
I hope my parents would be proud of them,
that they'd say
"I had no idea she had been exposed to so much beauty. If only we had listened sooner."

I wonder what makes the sun come up
I imagine it's in love with the moon.
Or, like they say, the sun is made of diamonds
and the man on the moon is a greedy theif waiting for the day he finally catches the treasure.