120pm Saturday. The pauses in my speech seem longer because I am thinking more between my words still. As I move through the air and learn to be content not to feel the need to explain my headspace and yet wanting to, every moment.
All of life and time has passed through me like a sink hole. Everything in my now can be seen and heard and interpreted by my brain recalling a situation similar enough that words can barely describe before I decide it’s time to give up on that and do it all over again with this.
The beat in my head to whatever song was triggered cones up, I tap to it till I have a new thing to take in and react to.
I flip to the beat between joy and sorrow and each tries to stay active longer before the flip.
As my mind wanders, the images all come very close to making sense. Sanity is the discovery or loss of how to stay flipping and not fall down the drain.
I live inside the undercurrent.
I fear the space between my room mate and I may be like the universe itself. Delays get linger because we don’t know when to join her skipping. Sadness moves slower. Or freezes.
We both know describing our own position on the journey sounds like gibberish to the other. We only share language to a point.
We even debated understanding to the point if anger. It was like saying the same word to a French man and expecting them to learn it without your context.
The Leeson is… It’s ok to fail at sharing understanding. Quit and try again later. At some point in the endless universe you both may tick off boxes. Yes. We both know what mock chicken tastes like.
End of this segment.