What Is This? I Vaguely Remember Writing It.

Written Taking A Number 2

I see you staring at me through a crack in the wall. I’m drinking you in licking you up and down savoring the experience of it. Everything appears as it should till you begin to speak. The paint on the exterior does not always present the same image as what exists on the other side of the door. Some illusions can never be fully manifested into destiny. No matter how hard we push to make it so. I don’t understand what the allure to illusion is. I continue to fall into the same puddle. When I come face-to-face with my fantasies, illusion shatters. In that moment reality is never the same again. It is like wrestling with the same river twice. I wade in and fight to maintain position in the swiftness of the current. I cling to a branch on a concave cliff. It is a spindly little thing bent near the breaking point. I’m afraid to let go. Afraid to fall into myself. Into who I was created to be. In my dreams, I can fly unfettered by luggage. I’m a time traveler into strange landscapes and otherworldly realities.

1/18/2010 Bus Ride

Issue 1: The Texture of Words