My head has been stuffed with clouds and airy things
They float around in there, not weighing me down as much as making it difficult to see.
I try to wave it away, to shoo it out like a deadly wasp, or maybe a drunken bee.
I’ve tried to capture them, like sucking them up into a vacuum and disposing them into a safer place in my mind. I’ve placed them in the back somewhere.
Yet the wind has it’s way of breathing it all into yet another mess. It’s all scrapes and papers floating around the air, becoming stealth vessels on their own, independent missions.
It all scatters, kicked up when I lay my head down. In different ways I’ve looked for an equalizer. I thick layer of alcohol would do the trick. But my eyes get sleepy after 3, and my bladder lets me know this isn’t what I thought it would be.
I’ve tried to build a bridge through the mist, to escape. But the project was never completed. It stands there, jutting out from my mind, with boards and drawings strewn about the site.
The harvest was plentiful, but the workers were few. Some tried hard. They really did. Others were too distracted by the liquor store down at the bottom of the hill.
It still stands.
Like a half assembled dinosaur skeleton, from a billion years ago.
When things were different.
When I was writing you letters.
