for some strange reason, i'm afraid to say it. embarrassed to say it. why? i'm not sure.
i am worried. all the time.
i am afraid. all the time.
this is true.
i stand on the corner waiting for the light to change, my hair hanging low against my ears, vertical blinds swinging through my peripheral vision. the sun's angle casts my shadow long against the curb, and a steady stream of water - from where, i have no idea, as it has not rained in days - curls around the edge of the street and past my feet. i realize that i don't know in which direction i'm moving; i realize that a little part of me is suffocating, somehow.
i'm a dull edge. i'm a butter knife. no, worse - i'm a spoon, sliding thick through life in a strange, indiscernible arc.
there should be a euphoria in me, now. have i misplaced it? has someone stolen it? has it deemed me an unworthy vessel and left me alone entirely?
i'm not sure.
but i have to get out from under this.