Standing Still

If my feet stop moving—if I hesitate—I will start thinking again, and that is terrible for my health. If gears start turning—tiny gizmos in my brain space—then I may forget to appreciate the potential glee a moment could bring. The days are rigid—if they aren't rigid there’s too much of that awful thing—the aforementioned poison, the toxin, I wish to avoid. So the days are scheduled, with only ten minutes for thinking—ten minutes for not being alive, ten minutes for reminiscing, brooding, and being otherwise dreary, and unsociable. And after the allotted time has passed again, the clocks restart—the people resume to walk—and life is, more or less, the same as it was before the thinking—aside from fifteen or twenty new epiphanies,

I’m searching for stepping stones, to abridge each day. I would like to walk across the lake, but I

Sink…

Sink…

Sink…

Because between you an me—this is a secret so we shan't whisper this to anyone—sometimes I think when I shouldn’t. Sometimes I think things that I wish would not be thought. But those thoughts sink with me, until I become afloat. But when I do dredge myself free of those thoughts I’m me again. But sometimes they resurface along the shore, as I walk back, and I start to consider the possibility that they weren't bad thoughts after all. When I think they are no longer thought—that they are gone for good—I go back to the beach and pull them from the sand. And they are as they always were, not great but good enough, considering they came from MY head. 

I’m searching for stepping stones, to create a path oblique from any prior—a path that moves forward, and doesn't tend to lead back towards home again. I’m searching for continuity and the seams to untattered the parts of me that still need to be sewn.