I can’t seem to shake the hazy funk of this past week.
I seem constantly on the verge of quiet tears, or the most immense laughter; perhaps spiralling finally into some place of madness. But with it has led me inside. It leaves me buried deep within my own thoughts- for many rational reasons to be sure, but much deeper than I’ve been in recent times.
I trudge through the days, slow and steadily paced; entrenched firmly in love and luck. At night my head spins itself weary and frantic dreams. Wings sprouted from my back, flying too close to the sun; a badger dug too deep into the ground. Both times with too little air to predicate the ability to thrive, but not so little that I cannot breathe. Everything lives in the haze. A fog of sentimentality, and stagnation. I take two steps forward, and then sit there for days to reflect on the charm and the way my hand feels against the other.
I close my eyes and there is a world of possibility, and I open them again and there sits even more unending ways this life of my could turn. I reflect. I reflect. I reflect. None of my writing takes on any sense of ownership; practices in first person narrative. Isn’t that what a life should be though? Not practices in torrid dialogue- just a thick tongued snake coiling back around the tree to catch it’s own tail in its mouth.
I am the snake. My life is the tree. My life is the snake, I am the tree. The tree; the dirt, the grass and sky.