For strength, I await the beckoning day, which will call me in frightful confusion.
I’d be desperate to unwind,
Binded to my own inclusion of every microscopic insignificant flaw.
One would think, I’d grow madly pressured to insight some sort of impetus to my obstructions.
I might sit for hours with the same vacant expression on my face, unmoving as a thick trunked willow.
When I want to rejoice and take pleasure in the good, I find my light dimmed, partially covered by some obscurity.
This leech commands itself to be present even when I wish to look away.
It embraces my thoughts and winds them in and out of each other, till I’m twisted and contorted, grabbing my brain and fleeing to the ground.
I offer ambition, ego in mass, unique consolation.
I dismember myself, lay in bed with my thoughts, twirl my reactions between my fingers, meddling in the ways I behave.
Nothing is well enough, left to rest, unturned.
All can be removed and replaced, ensured for quality care.
And when the work is done, I rest.
That would be an acceptable ending, but instead my brain powers up with the revving of 10,000 engines.
The thoughts, to dos, needs, wants, desires, inclinations, all the ways the world will pull me begin to seep in, and I am consumed by all that is not.
I am the laborer, who brings things to completion, who fixes what is broken, who obtains what is wanted.
I do all and yet somehow I cannot do a thing.
I sit in impatience, stifled by reflection.
Measuring myself.
Am I worthy yet?
I spill my guts, listlessly awaiting the day, I’ll be well from all my work.
The work is endless, the wellness never comes.
Complacent in my hunt for nirvana.
Awaiting the day I am complete, the day when everything falls into place,
When all is perfect.
The day that all is well enough…
The day that I am well enough.
And I remain, a misrepresentation of what it means to be well, a functional failure, astute to recognize fault, but ignorant to identify the unique contradictions that which solely humanity maintains.
I am not unwell, I am human.
Why does that rattle me so?
Defective; human.
Words intertwined, one impossible without the other.
