You are trying to tell me a story, and I think it has a purpose. But, the purpose is so lost and muddled and the connections only make sense some of the time. There is truth peppered in there like sand in carpet. Tiny little bits pressed down so far they’re so hard to find. But if you brush against them just right, you see them spring from the depths and jump in the air before your eyes. As if they were just waiting for you to find them.
I wonder what it must be like, knowing you don’t know. But caring so much. Wanting to know. Wishing you did.
I have forgotten plenty of things – things I’m not attached to, things I don’t care to recall. I wonder if all of a sudden, I felt like those were the key – the point – the goal. What would I do, now, if suddenly I wanted all those lost moments back? Would I sound insane? Would I cobble together pieces of what seem like reality and mix in something completely made up for flavor?
What story would I tell when I realised I only told the same one, over, over, over. Would I construct some fancy reality and pretend like I didn’t know? Would I even care if I did?
This is the strange road you’re on, and its getting more narrow every moment. With every new illusion, the reality cracks a little bit more. With every lie, the truth slips away from you. With each new deluge of anger comes a torrent of accusations that lead you in the same circles you’ve already gone.
You are a butterfly with wings outstretched, thinking as someone moves you that you fly. The street lamp is the moon on your back. And the jostle of their footsteps is the updrafts you’ve always caught in your flight.
When someone sets you down again, you forget them. Only the flight, that last moment, that one thing matters. All else is the blur you can’t wade through anymore,.
A life of things. Years and years, stacked on one another.
Who can possibly hold it all in?
Who can possibly understand?
The butterfly and you are tired.
It’s okay to go to sleep.
We kept watch.
It’s safe to sleep in the grass.