Varje Måne Trasig

The Universe rages, strips you of meaning, of understanding. You try to remember how to hold on to hope, to hold on to art, but it's been to many days without to now suddenly be with. The grooves of the wagon wheels' incessant treading have become canyons, depths the sun never reaches and you don't know how to climb your way out. Is all your life just going to be a question of whether or not I want to make it to the end of that day?

I loved you once and thought maybe that meant all the other questions had been answered. 

There's nothing special about that,
I learned.

Showers

The weather teeters, barreling from freezing rain to steam to sunshine and back, there's no point in keeping up. Dress for all the weathers and hope for the best. You haven't done laundry in weeks anyway, so what is wear. A woman sits on the floor and reads her trite poetry and you think, I can do better than that, but can and do are not the same. Instead you spend hours looking at real estate listings, like dreaming precludes you from having to make decisions at all. 

Are you done living other people's lives, yet?

Are you done being available where they need a buttress?

It's so little life we are giving, so few minutes, such frail cargo. May lies on the horizon like a lifeline, like a promise that maybe you'll feel an itcha again and want to set out. You know no other ways to live a life. 

You're trying to figure out if it's too late
to learn.

For Show

The day is drizzly, a chill runs through your apartment, no sunlight makes its way all the way into your nooks, you are not mad. Little flutters of ideas, of stories, make their way through your synapses, all you ever wanted was to tell a story and it's there, somewhere, but you are only almost able to grab it, it slips through your fingers. You draw up maps for a summer on the road and wonder how you can feel so lost when you haven't even left yet. 

Wherever you go,
there you are. 

You know that's the problem

You just don't know the solution. 

Is Your Land

It is not time, you hear yourself think. This is not how we go. Thirty years in this soil cannot be lifted from my roots with an airplane ticket. Those around you scramble to jump ship and you wonder what stubborn nerve it is that always keeps you in these fires for so long. 

It occurs to me that I am looking for a fire hose.