I have accepted that my psychologist can’t help me. And I feel okay about it. It’s like I’ve come down from a trip and I’m suddenly back on the planet, grappling with reality.
Here’s a poem that got written sometime in 2007:
The Present Impossible Perfect
My legs are long and I’m mostly late
and I like to walk fast around this town,
feeling my muscles move my bones,
feeling the ground walk back against my feet,
knowing myself to be a weightless thing that flies,
held here on earth by gravity’s embrace.
Sometimes I surge forwards even faster,
and leave myself behind there in the street,
dividing one future from another.
And as I walk I look for signs of ruin,
the wear of brick, the creep of green.
I leap inside with love, overwhelming and unchosen
for all the places overgrown and broken,
knowing myself to be a fleeting thing that dreams and dies,
somehow writing this poem, in this place.
I think I actually kind of like it 🙂 That’s quite a hard thing to admit, because I’m scared I’m crazy and no one else will like it. But I do.