They were suspended between my feet on the ground and the air outside. They were not here with me but I was in them anyway, and they floated. They happened, they are over, more will come.
These times are not a judgment on the rest of my life.
But maybe they are and that’s what everyone remembers when they look at me and I’m not laughing.
When I am okay and at work or in the streets or at the bar, I am trying to move around those moments. I am refusing to let them be the words on the paper but instead scratches in the margins. Because I cannot predict when I will be in bed next, I choose to make the times I am awake realized.
I need to feel my way through the days without thinking about what will happen next.
So—I say one life and drink and mess around and make stupid decisions and then I go home and I write and I feel good and happy and manic.
I am trying to live while knowing it can stop. I live for the Tuesdays I get out of bed and go to work but I remember last week when it took an hour to move my leg outside the covers.
I live for what I can know and what I do not.