Age of Content

The winter of my discontent has abated today. You could say I'm feeling gruntled (if such a word existed). I'll steer clear of disgruntled grumpiness about headaches, winds, procrastinati, motivation and "palap"s that never came to exist.

I snooped through the cellar again to see if there were any disintegrating manuscripts. Here is one that was posted in a "Who am I?" thread in October, 2002.

I am a disembodied brain,
a rock of consciousness floating freely
in an ether of security-seeking cries.

I am a warped, compulsive rhythm,
a humorous hint in a minor mode,
a lilt in a light-hearted dance.

I am an opera-house enigma,
an echo behind the backdrop,
a brooding wraith aching to uplift and consume.

I am Cyrano and Quasimodo,
Horton, patient beyond reason.
I am an immutable frog-prince.

I am Smaug,
protecting my precious treasures,
content to watch them sparkle.

I am an onion,
with layers to be peeled,
eventually exposing...

more layers.