Running for Home

This is a thing that I've forgotten how to do and they always say these kinds of things come back to you in an instant, a wrist flick, knuckle-crack half a second. They say lots of things. I've forgotten how to allign words in a way that isn't a business letter, an academic paper, some sort of endless list of things I have to do but give no fucks about. And I just try to keep my skin clean, my feet dry from the rain and my clock set. I'm never late anymore. It's like the world has forced me out of my way of existing. My circadian rhythm is broken. I sleep in the afternoons, dream in the days and have these misplaced hours where I'm nowhere nothing entirely oblivious which disturbs me. I'm trying to reallign and regain that thing that makes life more than routine. I think that's what you call those moments of salient awareness. It's not so much that the moment itself is any type of extraordinary, just that you're visible to yourself. You're in it. It's those moments where there are thunder storms outside coffee shops amidst streams of sunshine, strangers with stolen art work and savage smiles asking for your name, your number. It's the walks down tenth when nothing is unconscious subconscious it's just orange cats with green eyes sitting on roof tops watching you as you'renaming all of the flowers to yourself: forsythia, delphinium, love-in-a-mist, forget-me-not I dream often and not always in colour. And right now I'm living in this little fragment of life that you're not in and the distance is difficult and it hurts sometimes. I am cocooning into sheets, books and skin, sleeping facing away from you.