Heavy is the head, as I stare through the ceiling
waiting
for the energy of yesterday to fill the suit I live in,
eternally disconnected from the person I am
day to day.
Each different.
Each the same.
It’s as though I am fueled by the peak of the highs,
awaiting confirmation from an outstretched hand from
nowhere
that the joy of yesterday was not a trick.
It was all so good
once.
Or maybe twice.
I’m sure three times if I surrendered to what is true.
Yesterday told me who I was.
Today told me who I am not
and tomorrow will show me everything I am
in between
the lines that separate the hours
from the minutes.
Waiting.
Weighing
the weight of my head on a pillow,
dreaming about when I had it all figured out,
even though I am a thinker,
sometimes too much,
too dark
too deep
reinforced by a world trying to erase
the shame of experience.
The joy of experience.
The need for experience.
But as I reach for the hand from nowhere
I see my same tattooed fingers
and I finally understand
That I give
and take
from the very root of myself and hope
that tomorrow
I will connect again.
About the Creator
CTB
"We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time."
All things philosophy, magic, humanity, and emotion.
-NYC-
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