The Tables are Turned
Breach
Where do I stand? Now, days out from New Years, on the cusp of the entry into my 31st year; needing a thesis; hoping for answers to questions I have already forgotten the likes of by the time I've gotten to the end of this sentence. Clearly, having a point or meaning is valuable to me at this point. But why when I am so apt to consecrate the process, do I stammer, stumble, shutter and slip. I walked blocks of Manhattan on Saturday, knowing, as I meandered the street blocks back to my temporary abode, that these moments, and the warmth of the late December weather, were fleeting at best; less tangible objects to be cradled beneath my arms, to relative obscurity to those around me, nestled deep in my chest maintaining some grasp on them, like holding one's breath to the point of...I dig in to these thoughts much deeper now, realizing even my skin is slinking itself off daily, from lips, from scalp, hands, palms, knees; at which point am I shed of my next me, is my anaconda shell
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