Michael Winter

A superficial plunge passed everything I've worked for.

But no, that's not true.

The balancing act- I think of it so very often.

I've ricocheted from either end of the room,

and wobbling back I am now somewhere in the center.

I feel this to be very true.

That after years screaming to each end of the extreme,

I am soberly staggering in the middle of a void.

It's all something I know, because I have been here all before.

It is all around me, just simply in a different form.

I can remember the smell, and the lighting is exactly how I know it.

The sound is dull, frustration fear and failure all into a stuffed pillow

Muted.

But how can I recognize the difference when all of my memories are desaturated,

and the present I know is the same?

Greys, steels, ochres, woods, salt on white skin.

It all blends into itself,

A chameleon in vain.

This is the truth.

I'm telling myself to try to see the clarity,

but I lack the desire and willingness to do so.

A small portion of me is moving,

Upwards, pushing, flailing on my own feet to resist

my own resistance of discipline.

I am stuck, partaking in the exact fear which has consumed my knees,

I am moving inch by inch as if my calves, thighs, and hips were only able to do no more.

Stepping with as much precaution,

acting with as much sloth and laze

and at the same time the most desire

the most pain and the most distress

to truly act as I have always wanted.

And yet with all the stillness I have acquired,

I am not still, and I am boiling,

with heat and stress overtaking every inch of my consciousness.

Even when I simmer, I fail to completely cool.

And so I continue to search for the fear that is fueling this fucking flame.

Perhaps if I keep moving, the truth will come to me.