Aning.

I’m a bridge between myself and my future, tangled in a sweater of parallel universe strings. Strings and points and memories. I wear my shameless sanity sweater in oxymoronic pride, not realizing I’ve forgotten my pants and hey, that’s ok. No one notices and I quite enjoy the freedom and the naughty little bits of breezes billowing beneath my bottom.

Some days I’m a sweatered shipmaster, sailing a crystal clear sea of calm waters and I’m a simple set of coordinates. I’m due north but I have no compass and the music in my head swells and recedes. I create the map and the lyrics as I move. I’m home, here. I count stars and measure movements and marvel at my minute size and the monstrosity of the sea. I am taken. I belong here, not behind or in front of myself. Here. Dark velvety peace. Tranquility in solace. The silence is seductive.

Some days I’m sweaterless, navigating choppy, icy waters and I’m swollen and salty and my points are erratic and uncouth. I’ve lost the map haphazardly constructed and the music that should have never been and I’m flailing. On autopilot, I anchor myself in the midst of a building storm and allow the waves to wash over me, freeing me from charred walls and rusty chains. I’m due south but I linger, tasting each freeing feeling frozen on my skin. It hurts, but it exists.

Some days I don’t exist. I loses I, and me loses meaning. Aning I go, disconnected and detached. I’m watching this movie from the nosebleeds and this formulaic sepia filter is frazzling me. This mood lighting is forced and unforgivable. This must be arthouse- I’m just laying there watching myself lay there, exaggerated and on display while people circle around me, deriving their own meaning from this scene. Holy fucking Dionysus!!! Just climb the damn mountain already. Be free. After an eternity of silence, the scene cuts to me awakening and the movie is over. Credits roll, and I demand my moneytime back. No refunds? Fuck. Rave reviews too? What is wrong with them?

Today I’m a borderless bridge. I’m bored, gusty and full of travel and wanderlust, and I watch the ships pass beneath me in a fit of admiration and jealousy. People cross me, tugging on my cables, stopping in my middle to stare out at the horizon. They mercilessly question how I became a bridge, and not why I’m still a bridge. Evermore, I’m not so sure. I’m just here, pantsless and sweatered… waiting for calm waters and soothing songs and for a similarly inclined soul to shipwreck me to my aning. Anchors away!

 

 

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