wind up. wind down. sun up. sun down. pants up. pants down. sit up. sit down. throw up. throw down. over and over and over and over again. rinse and repeat.
the last few weeks i have sung to the night sky and the satellites have not responded. they are silent. or gone. and when i sleep in hopes of entering darkland, i dream of earthquakes and having my face smashed in by some unknown killer with a hammer.
i can no longer speak latin when im drunk. i no longer make up songs and sing them to my coffeemaker in the morning. i have waited so long for the tides to turn and now i am uncertain.
have my wings been clipped? is my soul packing? are the tents being taken down? did i sleep through this meeting? if everyone i love is on the other side now, why am i nervous? have i grown comfortable in being a hidden file? am i still scared of the main ring, the spotlight? this is not my circus. i did not write this script. turn the film off. burn down the theater. i did not write this. i never wanted any of this. no water into wine. no shit into candy. i am not that. i have not been that and i will never be that.
and as the houselights begin to dim, i am indeed holding my own hand. i smell greasepaint and frankensence. i hear latin and laughter. church bells and applause. i close my eyes. i will not watch. the rabbithole opens and i am lost into the screen.