To note this moment in time
Is to admit there is little time
To rest and be still
To write silly feelings
Track the change that keeps
Happening and unhappening
Thread the memory of past and future
Real and unreal
What is time but
Opposite of a thing

I have been so busy
I get energy from socialising
I feel full and capable
But I lose myself if I don't make a slot
A shell of time on my own
To pause
Remember this

The horror of you in
lesser light, when you took
via dolorosa, to
meet yourself.

Moon was not waiting
for you in unkind sky. A
pinhole of dark would not send
some hope.

Something unsavory was a
way of unhappening,
tying the knot with the destiny
of doing nothing.

Losing my kernels in
desert of words. I took
the wrong path of liberation―
where no god lives.

EVERY DAY I FORGET THE SAME FIVE IMPORTANT FACTS OF LIVING.

(I AM THE ONLY ONE INSIDE THIS ROCKET. I AM THE ONE WHO ENFORCES THE BODY, AND NOT ITS FEELINGS, BUT EVERYTHING ELSE. I AM YOUNG. I AM NOT ALONE. TOMORROW DOES NOT NEED ME TO INITIATE IT, I CAN WAIT WITHOUT CONSEQUENCE.)

IT IS AN EVER-CYCLE OF THE SAME THING.
THAT SPECIAL AMBITION OF LIVING,
A LOVER I LOSE IN THE MORNING WHO I FIND ONCE MORE IN THE EVENING, BUT ONLY AS THE SUN SETS, AS THE PRESSURE IN MY BODY STEAMS FROM MY WOUNDS AND PROBLEMS AND ORIFICES AND MOLECULES AND I GRIEVE AND ACCEPT THE AILMENT OF LIVING, THAT IT OCCURS IN STAGES AND EACH ONE IS MORE MISERABLE THAN THE LAST, AND EACH ADVANCING STAGE IS ENVIOUS OF HIS PREVIOUS LIFE, AND NOBODY CAN TELL ONE ANOTHER HOW TO FIX OR STOP OR HELP OR NOTHING

EVERY DAY  I FORGET THE SAME FIVE IMPORTANT PILLARS OF LIVING IN AN OVERACTIVE MIND WHICH PREFERS AND FINDS IMMENSE COMFORT IN THE HYPOTHETICAL ACT OF DYING. AND THEN AT THE END OF THE DAY, I AM EXORCISED FROM THE STRESS OF TOMORROW AS MY TIGHT ATOMS RELEASE THE TIGHT GRIP ON THEIR OWN HANDS SO THAT I SINK INTO THE FLOOR. A SMALL CAT APPEARS FROM  BENEATH THE SOFA, LOOKING INTO MY EYES AS IF MY STEAM IS VISIBLE IN HER SPECIAL CAT FREQUENCY SENSORS. SHE STEPS UP AND ONTO MY CHEST AND I PUT MY HAND INTO HER FUR AND SHE RESTS HER HEAD INTO MY FINGERS WITHOUT HESITATION, BECAUSE I WOULD NEVER DROP HER, AND SHE KNOWS THAT, AND THE SOUL OF ME KNOWS THAT TOO. THE ONE WHO WATCHES AND DOES NOTHING WHEN I MOST NEED HIM.

HE SIGHS AND CLICKS THE SEATBELT BACK ON. THE LEVERS ARE COLD BUT HE IS READY TO PILOT ONCE MORE, AND HE IS NOT HAPPY ABOUT IT, BUT THERE IS SOMETHING MUCH BETTER THAN DYING AND SOMETHING SOMEHOW BETTER THAN LIVING, THE HOUR BETWEEN THE INTENT AND THE ACTION, THE MIS-ACTION, THE UNDOING OF ILLOGICAL THREADS AS THE FINAL FACT LICKS MY AT MY FACE. AT ONCE, I AM PERFECTLY UNHAPPENING. I AM A PATCH OF CARPET FUR, AND SO IS SHE, AND SILENTLY, WE BOTH ARE ALIVE WITHOUT HAVING TO DO A SINGLE THING. I AM COMFORTED BY THE EFFORTLESSNESS OF LIFE, OF HER LIFE, LITTLE AND INTELLIGENT, PETTING HERSELF ON THE WET POINT OF MY NOSE. I TELL HER THE FIVE IMPORTANT FACTS OF LIVING AND SHE DOESN'T UNDERSTAND BUT SHE IS ATOMS TOO AND CERTAINLY CAN LISTEN.