Sleepless: ‘well, that’ll be the day when you say goodbye, yes, that’ll be the day when you make me cry’ – buddy holly

Where would you go if you could pick up and leave?  What would you read if you could pick up and read?

When things were simpler, I worried about God.  When things made more sense, I questioned truth.  When things were clearer, I asked, “…but what if….”

Curse more complex burdens.  Curse countless, sleepless hours.  Curse the poetry in my head that cannot be placed on paper.  Curse ideas that are trapped.  Curse the inability to do everything I want to do; everything I need to do.  Curse time. “Surely I’m not awake.” Surely I am.

How many hours can you stare into the mirror before all your features become blurred together.  I touch my face but no longer is anything distinguishable.  Only warmth and sweating reassures me that I am alive.  Escape! Escape!  What will it take?  What will it take to free myself from my own inabilities?

Could love end this dreadful infinity?  Could pain?  Could God?  Is he not both?  Why do they only give you enough time to get lost, and when you finally find yourself, you find yourself lost again, save you eventually accept “lost” as okay.

Oh me.  Once again, caught up in the moment and blurriness and not even sure what comes out of the fingers that don’t stop moving about pick-pecking as they do, as they have their own will.


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