There are time I am utterly run amok, chasing something to its end, obsessed until I’ve had my full.
And then there are time like now, not ennui exactly, but no impetus, no desire, no drive.
Ebb and flow, jazz and lull.

This what I feel
The tremble in my fingers
The lack of spit in my mouth
The sweat glistening on my forehead
The beat my hearts skips
The seizing of my stomach
The stagger of your breath

Straddled always between rich and poor, intellectual and thug, faithful and faithless.
I remember reading about first generation immigrants and finding resonance with the term “liminal”: caught between the old and the new, the children of immigrants trying to mitigate the differences between their home and the country outside of it.
And I find myself in this perpetual state, oscillating between any two points. To rip from morrissey: “oscillate wildly”

Clever monster, you’ve hidden yourself in all the proper trappings to be human again.
Don’t you dare rear your ugly head again.

Why don’t you fall of this cliff, swallow this gravel, punch your way out from within this tree?
Why don’t you cut strips off your forearm, coke on this pile of nails, squirm your way through this furnace?
Why don’t you hope, why don’t you scream, why don’t you beg to be other than me?

Why don’t you fall of this cliff, swallow this gravel, punch your way out from within this tree?
Why don’t you cut strips off your forearm, coke on this pile of nails, squirm your way through this furnace?
Why don’t you hope, why don’t you scream, why don’t you beg to be other than me?

An ease doesn’t mean any of this easy. The way the dew freezes on my lips, the way your hip grinds atop mine. No one says it has to be easy. But the ease of it, the guile of it, the struggle to get there, makes it wonderful.

This is how you measure it:
A prolonged glance.
A prolonged embrace.
A prolonged moment of kindness.

In the night, it can be anything. Utter nonsense but it gets somewhere. I haven’t been anywhere but in my mindn where it goes. One obsession after another. Everthing fleeting but profound. At some point I will forgive him because he is human and flawed. In the pulpest of fictions: sometimes we are more in love with the flaws than the strengths, the marrow of character. Anyone can be strong, anyone can be weak. But to be both, to find strength in weakness and to admit your weaknesses when you are strong. There the fine edge.