There must have been 30 of them
huddled in the corner.
30 muffled chuckles when I gave them the news.
Just one of me, the medical marvel, the unanswered question.
They were the doctors and I was the patient.
Help is what I asked for.
Judgement is what was prescribed.
A four-walled microcosm of my envisioned reality.
I was the odd man out, again.
I’m telling you, there must have been 30 of them.
The wind whistles underneath the balcony door.
I hope it doesn’t wake you.
My day ends peacefully when I know you’re sleeping safely.
The days seem to blur together lately.
I’m the cold wind blowing below a door.
Impossible not to stare into the distance, looking for a place to slow down.
One day, I’ll learn to live in the moment,
to live a moment,
but I’m living this one with you
seeking to live our next one.
Someday, I won’t be the wind sliding speedily through the door.
I’ll be the breeze on a warm beach day,
holding your hand, and theirs.
Thoughts pour in.
My mind floods with thoughts on your thoughts.
This is what I do.
What else did you think?
Hard to sleep.
Eyes half-full of water.
They can’t shut.
I can’t shut out the thoughts of the day.
Nearly paralytic
wondering what they’ll pull next.
Our life is on a leaf in the air,
falling from a branch,
with no way of telling which way
the wind will move.
But I lie calmly,
anticipating the next landing,
the next 24. 48.
72 hours.
Forgive this state.
It’s unfamiliar.
Help me find
how it used to be.
But familiar enough,
vulnerability awakes.
Unable to take down,
it has taken me.
Forgive this state.
It’s tired and blocked in.
I’m fighting myself,
losing every day.
Hope Moon can help.
This darkness needs light.
Hope the hated Sun
never lights my path.
24 hours is almost enough
time to catch your breath,
assess the room,
grab your keys from the floor.
24 hours is enough
time to remember the route,
map out the area,
shut down the road.
24 hours is more than enough
time to stare at your reflection,
shake your head and say
“Never again.”
I’m looking forward to looking back,
but the realism has yet to settle.
The time to reminisce
will come in time.
Instead, I push forward like
a wrecking ball against bricks.
The reason for my lack of disregard
is transcribed in every work.
It’s because I know a light awaits me
in a place my hands cannot reach
and my eyes cannot see,
waiting for me to turn it on.
And only I will know the distance
it will take for me to arrive.
My endless imagination will work wonders,
while my tireless legs continue to move.
And only I will know when I am there
and I will share the light with everyone.
It’s always a rare moment
when held speechless.
But that is where I am today
and yesterday, and probably tomorrow.
Electrodes have yet to go off
in this brain of mine.
Doc Brown has yet
to get struck.
But I know it will.
Every inch of work,
every typed letter,
every question asked.
Every tear, every smile,
every stressed moment,
every fight, every embrace.
Does this mean I’ve finally made it?
What holds outside of my rainy window,
dark from the night,
cloudy from the water,
bored from the time.
Not used to having my decisions
placed in other people’s hands,
especially when their intentions
are as foggy as the mountain top.
If I ever needed a prayer,
I need one now.
Or a flux capacitor,
a crystal ball.
I’m slowly growing tired
of this slowly moving time,
as I make slow-motion contact
into a wall.
Falling off the cliff
of my homestay timeline.
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