Trepidation, it seems to be my mission to be incapable of making a decision. I wish that I could get up and go instead of sitting around, be productive and envision. Envisioning one’s future is not enough. I wish I could get rid of this fear, the fear of actualization. It seems I am terrified of being able to provide for myself, to commit to anything. I have a fear of self-commitment, it seems to me that to a degree I live in fear of accomplishing my dreams.
    It’s hard to figure myself out, why I live inside myself, beside myself while muting the thoughts that try to escape through a gaping hole, not whole within myself. All day, I think of these great things I could say, and yet I sit and debate if anyone around can relate, or if they’d care or stare blankly and think to themselves that I’m crazy. This crazy lady who sits, alone silently in class. Like a timid deer, leering through bushes in a forest. Desperately seeking human interaction, but too afraid of being turned down to reach out and try. I live in constant fear of never being happy. I fear that I will never find my calling in life, that I will hop from job to job, career to career without being near to self-satisfaction, a feeling of inner peace, completion. I wish I could live peacefully within the regulated regime of a god, a god dictated by a group of people who claim to have the answers to all life’s unanswerable questions. '
   I think I may be incapable of living godlessly, a spiritual person who can’t live with the *******. I see it every day all around me, the theory of Christian exclusion, is there therefore an excuse to be a completely unreasonable person and treat others as lesser beings? Can I buy into the cause simply for the membership card? Give my intellect a breather, pretend that I’m not thinking. I can be a useful member of society, as a whole, not individually. It’s much easier this way, allowing independent thinking a little chance to decay, just enough to dismiss the bits of dismay that creep in when I find the world around me lacking in substance. When I catch myself being too self-critical, or critical of others as it sometimes turns out to be.
    I have a million endless, ceasing thoughts inside of me that I struggle to put into an assembly line, to assess the individual pieces and construct a completed, productive product that is my ability to function, happily in society. Should I consume the soma? Or should I let the unbearable sensations of the modern worldEe overwhelm me? Can I disregard the rest of the baseless rhetoric, the pathetic excuse for being a better person? “Because god told me so” I believe was the church nursery rhyme, repeated systematically like a cultish chant, a bedtime prayer said before hypnopaedic sleep. Can I find a brave new world if I simply give into the system? Give into the never-ending spiritual conquest of the intellectually-tormented mind? It all, you see builds up inside of me, all these restless thoughts and feelings of inadequacy. ‘I don’t take myself seriously. Or maybe I take myself too seriously. I don’t know. It’s time for sleep.

I left work. Rode my bike home, but don't romanticize it- don't feel left out. The ground in this city is uneven and the rush of anxious minutes escapes no one- ticking fuel for everyone's consistent commutes.

Especially on a bicycle; no one ever sees you. So I ride quickly to keep  pace and avoid my self-imposed sympathies for holding everyone up.

A quick shot down gradient asphalt teaches you that riding your bike to work carries with it a perpetually aching ***. A living classroom experience that an object in motion, will continue in motion until an object of equal or greater motion inhibits it.

The streets are stationery and they rule, godlessly. So, just don't romanticize what it is you think I am doing here.

I had nothing to do. I laid on my roof shirtless and let the sun mistake me for one of its feline Maenads. On days like today, it's hard to not worship beauty. Or the feeling of heat. Eyes shut, I imagine writing- at one point I imagined writing this.

It sounded better then.

A helicopter files parallel to the horizon.

I think of a police state and what a sunny day in them must feel like. I think of the constants; of fear & the times in life spent missing the mark.. My thoughts interact like the clouds above my closed mind. Meeting briefly and passing ways with parts of them missing, yet with new formations attached.

I come to- from a lucid daze. The neighbor two row homes down is now on his roof, but it's a deck- a place where you can welcome other people.

The breeze begs my hair for attention; it obliges itself across my face. I breathe in.

I go inside. Lie down in the warm security of my bed. Breathe in its comfort, it's unforgiving acceptance. But it's too beautiful of a day to waste (aren't they all). I sigh.

Grab a pen, my notebook, a countless refill of still water.

I return.

To my mind's abode with its offering of a grounded bird's eye view.

I begin.

a goddess in the night
when the bright sun was peeling
like a wild flower
being picked up from an empty ceiling
like a hurricane shattering every appearance
from a youthful child’s appealing
to a dull grayish feeling

she was born again in the evening
hearing every judgment like a knife
cutting through the wounds of healing
she was nobody but somebody to me then

she had the essences of me when i was leaving
a body of a soul that was not leaning
to let the sky’s tears wash off deep ends
of sad songs colliding to let you speaking
words you’ve never heard before
to a lovely womanly hearing

i am her and she was me
but she was fearing me
and i wasn’t letting her seeking
the discomfort of the godlessly meaning