I don’t think I can keep going on like this.
in this middle ground.
I don’t think I can keep up—no, I’ve ALREADY fallen behind…
in my work, in my sleep, in my daily routine
I’m never really sure where I am,
if I’m coming or going
what is home?
home now just as much in question as love has become.
home now hostel now hotel—hold, put a hold on that room for me, will you?
hold that door?
up or down?
coming or going?
just for the night?
out the door.
right. left. no. over there. turn around. fly.
where am I? fly.
So what does this really mean?
This means, I don’t think I can keep up the pace, that my ragged edges are beginning to show—my unwashed hair, my pekid complexion, the tags on my clothing because I bought new ones instead of cleaning the dirty—that all this is showing NOW, and that I’d rather not completely crater.
Maybe, in fact, the idea of this middle ground, of living in this noise is not so new and that it’s just every time I’ve tried it, I’ve collapsed in one direction or the other… under the pressure of it all.
So that now,
I must fly.
but didn’t I just say… i have already fallen.
I just don’t know any other way.