Today, you grasp your felty pen - some baby magic settled between your ears like the plastic lightning bolt you once wore on your head as a joke.
And, you have papers - stacked, glued together at the edges, coffined by two boards, though still open on two ends - bound yet breathing, with leaky black thoughts nestled in the whiteness of whole color.
And, you want fixity. You say you don't, but you do - seeking a single pursuit you hope will hold you in a reverberating pool in cupped hands. Inside, you'd swim 100 laps, work at the crevices, and peer over tips dipped in flesh until night came just when you needed a float.
But, instead, you climb the mountains of your mind - holding tight to your dangling doubt - the only thing you trust.
And, you know what happens when the trusted is defined by its own treachery.... Winning loses, and, yes, you trust that, too.
And, you know what happens when the trusted is defined by its own treachery.... Winning loses, and, yes, you trust that, too.
