I assert it: We shouldn’t feel this way. Summer was a whisper. Winter is louder. I was with mind imposition, such widening lenses, motion and movement. Encased in remoteness, thieving from self. There’re islands in those stars. Lord knows by association, history, and language. Over strong feelings, to imagine how it occurs, subtle sketching, internal etching, understanding is challenged. In any other participation, with circumstance afforded, one would assert sickness. We glide over ponds, sitting on atmosphere, bled dry of understanding; we push realms, deeper into fathoms, forcing pictures to take clarity. It was mental, an effusion of emotion, some curtain we peek in autumn; it was hell with roses, some alienated kiss, to look into a mirror, gaze with all one’s might, and utter to self: “I’m alright.” To awaken while reaching; to harp in silence; loving for fondness, tricking one’s cerebral, for sake of garnishing something normality. I spend time analyzing this feeling. No one can claim ownership. And no one quite invests beyond their stoop. One is quick to add to science, to imagine something critical, we keep enduring. Honestly, there’re many factors, beyond a hypothetical, and motion demands movement. In crossing mind patios, firing up a grill, sipping some designed drink—in looking eye-to-eye, playing pretend, slightly misappropriated.
