On mornings like this one I’m worried about the fact that I don’t seem to be worried about anything. “It’s too early to worry,” I tell myself, while pouring another cup of French Roast.
I’m like a sailboat of ease floating into a sunset underneath white linen clouds I can’t salt or pepper with adjectives without sinking myself behind a 5 O’clock nap and snapping off another cable of sleep I’d once used to rig my “complex as hell” anxiety out of deep fathoms of paradox and contrary, but now can only seem to watch slowly sink and vanish,
the way a solitary child who drops a stone into a deep well feeling his wish to be visited by a translucent, mother-like spirit born from dark caverns of loss, intuitively realizes that,
just as he loses himself for good, he’ll begin to wait for himself to come back behind his actual wish to know and be loved by everything he already both is, and isn’t,
but just has to figure out a way to rise up out of the abyss of poor self-esteem and believe he’s good enough to talk to first.