the line between the conscious and unconscious self; how easily i eek by and walk it like a tightrope, a never-ending circus act that defies the laws of physics and psychology all in one. studied and rendered, the darkness is forever intrusive and limits the layers of light as they fight for ownership, my spirit and soul far too heavy for a world gone mad with the weight of ego.
insecurity, maybe an aimless plight, its acknowledgment hardly anything new but still just as disarming. i watch myself cross the room, moving in direct proportion to the molecules that fill the space and i wonder how much of it i consume, where exactly do i begin and end. how much more can i become without becoming nothing?
laughter, a gift; an art form; a defense mechanism, merely a guise to hide what falls below and leaves empty space between. i don’t make others laugh, though i wish i did, could, knew how. instead what i do is force them to think, to draw back, to discern. myself a mere vehicle, never the driver, though often wishing for the opportunity to direct.
love is in there too, it brews like tea leaves, ghostly images fallen to the bottom of the cup. no one knows how to read them really, not even me. i am forever in the processing, the guiding, the questioning, the limitless bounty of loss that has plagued this span of existence. i know how to love, but like the winter, my snow suffocates the seeds and forces them into hibernation.
a girl without a garden, not one she knows how to tend alone anymore. my back more ache than muscle. my ego, an ant crawling up the side of a mountain. hubris once the feared fall no longer in the picture. think, think, think. too much though. always too much.
