"Not Thinking"

not ever so slightly so, but very much the same

constant fight to feel the middle

searching for something in every.thing-creating, because I won't succomb to the lost, without it: I'll see it one way or the back door other. Its there.

this is a black hole the spin isn't able to drag me out of anymore. look at the statements. self-imposed static. the kind that creates those painful shocks.

what [if it really is] a tragic consumation of a life thus far [if even only to me?]

Do you recieve the messages I send or do they evaporate in space, dropped somewhere inbetween here and the midwest? I feel like I'm sending these out into the great black unknown. As though I'll get an echo back of all my messages, only they'll be followed be a post-script: "return to sender", maybe having made contact, but not impact, bounced off.
Where are you?
I'm hoping for a real landing this time. Fingers crossed and all.

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Even the softest part of my mind has grown tired of making the dull seem to sparkle. There are too many black holes in this one.

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