I was free-flowing despite unevenness. It is amazing what feels normal: brains mocking, spirits held in derision. By soul to connect quickly, by heart to utter, “I need you.” Such pious creatures, ever detoured, each feeling like an explosion. I keep a few to mind, an interior universe, I do not always agree, I do listen. Spirits are heavy on a throttle, needing each other, seemingly the seamy keeps balance; arms reaching, imbalance screaming, desperate to have it back. Needing confidence. Approaching lakes. Asking for fever, chance, debating miracles—in trying to forget those few rounds. Life is different as it moves. I filter through fabrics: I do not fly freely. It has always been a feeling … as it pushes me, as it contemplates upon winds, going and coming as they please. (I ask myself, in speaking randomly, when this is concluded, will I become you? will you become me? If so, will that sprinkle the beauty in the rain, or impair what was fragile to start with?) Such randomness—such free-flowing chains, a thirst for feelings, sensing halos, disputing what it denotes—what it means—in deeper regions. It must insist upon order of passions, redressed direction, even nights in rapture; free of relievers, all focused upon Divinity—pouring into Christ, delving deeper into what it means to feel joy.
