The air is closing in, rolling like mossy rocks to invade the space I set aside. This is my one last chance to breathe, to find peace in the chilly damp air. The sun has set; dusk is upon me; it feels continuous and unending; standing in the middle of view obscured, feeling induced cloudiness that overtakes to create more land. This is soul erosion. This is my heart. This is my love. This is not me.
Unfounded, or maybe nothing in the wake of not being found, walking in a dream like a sloth crossing a pothole riddled street. Nothing swirls like the swells of the unknown, the rising tides and shifting sands, the constant and exhausting redesign of the Winchester madness taking hold of a vessel I hardly ever recognize. When I speak, it speaks back. When I scream, it internalizes. When I fight, it vanishes into the celestial but ephemeral form of nothingness. When it is not me.
I suppose it could be attributed to the transient nature of nature, an existence bound to an ocean even though it lacks an anchor. The air is closing in, embracing the unmoving and adjusting to the spectre of a past not yet released; held captive to the shackles of time. Leaving nothing but gasps. This is my one last chance to breathe. To appreciate the damaging waves crashing against the rocks, vision obscured to that which cannot be seen, to feel the glow of a presence that cries out to be held, to quit the feelings that need not want. Then, it is not me.
Noticing that time is short; this moment feels eternal. O identity! I have, will have, do have. One last gasp.