It is not always like that,
Though the higher I lift off from reality,
The further I inevitably fall.
The trough needn’t be so deep, the ditches so sloped, and hard to climb.
If you crest too high, it gets difficult to see, so far out that
Even pulling yourself back down presents only
Floating, fabricated footholds
To tread water, or tread mill
Think you’ve moved but you’ve stayed still.
Acting as if there is no problem isn’t valid stance either,
Just another phantom pretending to be the ground.
A lot has changed now,
my skin has closed in around me.
But it’s better to be in my skin
Than to be abandoned outside it.
Or with mind sunken in.
Sorry it’s late, but here’s the Thursday post.
It’s sort of related to the New Years poem. It’s kind of weird.