Wind

Now my psyche is a window to my Child from the side. All that comes to me will stay with me. If I hear or see, all that is seen and heard along with all that I learn goes to my memory down there.

What may come from the side goes to the place in my auditory cortex that rests next to the things that I have heard. Every sound and sight that I hear and see rests well with me.

Hearing only their voice will promptly result in a knock that stays within my house and collides with all to be.

This collision of neurological signals and my senses creates waves that stay in motion like grit in the wind. As I think, thoughts settle below my deep conscious brain. My psyche catches all of the torrents of words that come from the people who speak to me.

Some of these words settle the whole way to my heart.
Stirred thoughts come in a froth and the air blowing with me brings more to the surface. With more comes memory.

➤ As I stare at the marquee of mountains during my first summer home from college, words begin to blow and well up through my memory from years past.

I feel my thoughts moving at the speed at which the car moves through Colorado on the drive home. For a spell, I feel as though I might stay and take another year off school.

After refinishing the roof of the Pagosa Springs High School for long enough to want to come back to school and write, I sift through the memory of the first girl that I ever fucked after years of loving her. Summer passes before I feel the burn of the season that strings out over my weeks.

Dave, the supervisor of Roofmasters Incorporated and my relative, later returned to Kansas before another crew took over a project that was going to take weeks to complete.

My mind appears to be suspended between Denver and Pagosa while thinking of my job and the desire to return to the school that I love.

From the school I love to Pagosa, Colorado, I hear conversations blow from my memory that come from my girl, words from my sister, mother, stepfather, Father, Stepmother, Casey, a friend of mine whom I worked with, John, a friend who worked with me, and in turn from my entire family.

Conversations come to me from the start until I hear the words and answer back.
This is why I think out loud.

At first, I remembered conversations and let the wind blow as I thought. Later I began to remember conversations between myself and people that I know from Mission Viejo, a neighborhood on Chambers Road in Denver, Colorado.

I began to respond to these conversations. Soon I responded in great detail that I derived from a single night in that neighborhood, in which the world happened to me.

Mental regurgitation combined with the deep layer of conscious memory that rose to the surface began to uncover laughter, stories, screams, child born and child raised, all from the same neighborhood.

All of this blew past me while I lived my daily life in a town that I lived in for half of my life.

Now the wind blows. I go to school, slam poetry several nights per month, and read when I can.

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Momentarily, the feed of words from people at my side continues a deep conscious froth that synchronizes with my writing.

I speak to myself to balance the weather, to write, to feel the hurtful torrent of words getting lodged in my psyche.

This steady stream of thoughts that I call the wind has never left me and gotten more intense.

Neither have these words gone from me.
In fact, these words of wind have aided and abided me greatly,

for these words are mine.
This is why I write.
This is why I think out loud.