it is beyond reason, i suppose, emotions that stir as if they had a consciousness of their own. and if there is none left more tangible to blame, i can always point my finger at god. time is lacking in my quest to cleanse myself of stains i deliriously wish i had no longer. i can write and put my frustration into many a four letter word and yet i still my tongue. i hush my whole being almost as if i wish for a moment to sink into sweet oblivion. but the strap of my tether can loosen no more and i am held between reality and an arm's reach beyond nepenthe. to sink deeper or surface, i wish to do neither. i want to make a home for my self in the obscure middle of things. a certain strange comfort. a perfect stranger that is a stranger no more.
somewhere in the middle. you know where to find me.