Feel His Disease

The unease begins to settle in my stomach, it refuses to go away. I feel restless, but my moves are so slow. Perhaps reality is beginning to kick in.

How long it was all I could do to focus on the move. Pack your bags, get out alive. Deal with the rest when you know if you survive. Now a whole new life appears and demands my attention, my efforts. People around me ask of plans and road maps; they have years and years properly outlined, how can I not? But I have nothing to offer them, nothing to offer myself. Every night is the end of my foreseeable future. I have gathered my roots in a shopping bag, and the slightest gust of wind may carry me off. I adore the thought. I abhor the thought. I run in circles until my legs are sore.

So many years, and how little you have changed. How the itch still tears your skin into a boiling shelter, how your fear of heights still keeps you from leaping. You wander in limbo until your dreams and your nightmares are one and the same.

One day the awakening will be rude.