my lungs are dusty and my fingers are thin and my tongue is paper and i do not feel anchored to the ground nor do i feel high up in the clouds; i am somewhere in the middle, levitating in the space between sky and grass, head fogged up, nerves like violin strings. i am dear to me, but not quite, as the love-hate relationship that goes on in the selves of every individual in this pretty, pretty planet, and i am free, but not quite, and i am the god of myself, but not quite. the sun lands on my cheeks and my eyes are stars, but not quite. i think about depravity and then i think about over significance and the world that does not require it. i think about our madness and saneness at once as a species and how we fear the negative aspects of our society and glorify the ones we deem good, and i think about eating flowers, and i think about reading, and i think about film, and i think i am pretty, but not quite, and i think about atlas and the world he carries and the mercy of the christian God, and i think a lot. i want to pick out my brain, learn the parts, and put it all back together once more except there are pieces replaced with much kinder ones. i think about betterment and i think about chains. i think about leaping and i think about sticking into the safer side. and then i think about the needlessness of over thinking, then i am calmer.
