i awake with a start
only to stop and think
the image of a robin caught in headlights is still imprinted on my retina
the black leaves on the white trees float on my vision like a nebula
what use is a frayed length of rope
i am turning into a misanthropic muddle of lindy hop lessons and cuddles with my

i don’t have a partner

an empty glasses case reminds me that i cannot see for all the advice i give others
exactly what is the use in imagining going undercover on a drugs bust
or watching a woman washing bloodied clothes in silver stream before she looks up at me
i am turning into a confused collection of university lectures and cups of cold tea
left to collect dust in the dreams i paint for myself in the margins of notebooks in which i try to make sense of myself
is this a stream of consciousness no
more a stream of conscious consideration of the unyielding unconscious
something i must try to make sense of because
not because
before i give up
no not give up
i forgot where i was going
i’d close my eyelids
but the ghosts of yesterday won’t leave me alone and the demons of tomorrow just keeping reminding me i haven’t gotten anywhere yet

i am becoming a clenched fist that hides behind an aching back
a cricked neck that won’t crick back
my glasses don’t even fit my face anymore
between the lindy and the letting go
between the work and the work load
between the books i’ve read and the ones still on the list
between the past the present and the future that is and isn’t
between the lack of a plan and lack of love for one
between the caffeine and the tablets and the headaches and the pain and the constant rambling on of a me that can’t stay asleep and fingers that need to type so they are beating something to death even if that turns out to be any sense of making sense
between fantasy, dreams, nightmares and reality

i’ve become lost

Apparently this is the result you get when you are under stress, lack sleep, let your imagination lose all too often and type furiously without really thinking . . .



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