I am an onlooker in my own life;
two eyes watching the body beneath me.
Floating in the intermittent period
between then and to come.
Grasping on to the future
but what I long for cannot be
when I am not deserving of it,
not good enough.
'You deserve everything.'
Change can be anticipated,
yet still appear as if unexpected.
Suddenly, existing without the few who know me, or knew me.
I miss them and I miss then.
Still here after all this time;
same buildings, same life
but it is not me living it;
but it was never me living it.
If that was not me, the present me,
then did it really happen?
And if I can't recall,
was I really there?
Counting down the days, hours, minutes,
until time resets again.
Three weeks are a lot when they're a one-off.
Three weeks become shorter when you live them fifty times.
One week left,
but one week until what?
My thoughts are illusional, fanciful notions,
evading the reality that has built itself around me.
I've been away this whole time.
And now I'm locked out.
'make your own kind of music'
I do not know the notes.
I'm only me when I'm alone.
