Mind Stream: The Bulging Earth

I've been reading "Writing Down the Bones," by Natalie Goldberg. Wish I'd read it years ago. Anyway, what follows is a stream-of-consciousness exercise I did a few weeks ago after reading one of the chapters (I forget which chapter). Kinda dark.
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The world is full of too many things. It is bulging, the ground roiling with the uncontainable existence of life and non-life. All the sunshine illuminates for me are the scars and bruises of time and shoots of love that never bloom from the earth because no one truly knows how to nurture them. We are broken gardeners, claiming love and other things of which we know almost nothing. Our "love" is but a ghostly mockery of whatever love truly is, or perhaps it's a hint of a phantom that exists only in our feeble minds, which are full of too many things that contradict each other and paralyze our internal logic.

I stand on a street corner as cars and people and life whiz past in fast-forward. My eyes find no focus, and my heart beats alone, a quiet drum beat hopelessly looking around for its music. If the music is there, the cacophony is drowning it and burying it in some crevice where even moonlight cannot reach. I stand on this corner and stare at the silver sky, waiting for the rain to bring either clarity or death. My name is Nothing, and no one calls it.

The straight, smooth lines that carry men slice my veins. My soul leaks out and is carried away on the autumn winds, and I cannot follow. The browned leaves gather at my feet and rise up, and I become them, and I float away in a thousand parts.