Wilder shifts. It belongs to me. The ache of it. We say, “On everything I believe in.” It makes for truth, those frequencies, to confront sad moments. To jog it away; to wash the temple; to joust and tussle with it. The weakness in me, to succumb to it; the strength in me, to endure it. Makes for what we see; or too tired for it all. Ploughing despite the tyranny; painting an abstract image of it; or writing something as it might capture it. At points, lethargic; such pure uneasiness, shifting, restless, uneven. To wonder its medical term: deeper than depression, and that nonetheless; its sway causes for another name. We’ve been together for years. It appeared early-on. It decided to stick around, to make a home—quite genetic in origin, triggered from the outside, nor was it triggered. Such a reality for souls; by condition, such zestful melancholy, such doubtful mystics. Wilder shifts—as upon a cloud, under earth, baptized to make it better. What would a soul believe? It’s not as free as it seems. To have some element in self—demanding attention, flaunting itself in one’s members. To push too much; to feel heavy; to protrude through one’s being. In needing to bring life to thoughts; a simple reminder at times; deeper cogitation—those foul winds, one would shake Christ, if never again, it’d be too soon.
