My ambiguity is my soul mate. My unclasped handshake wrapped around a free for all, anything goes cacophony of feeling in chaos, ordered in its randomness. It is unbridled and undisciplined. It is never quiet. It never leaves me. At least it’s consistent.
It writhes out of its translucent malleable shell in quieter moments, as if to prevent the peace I seek. It slithers a trail of oily tears in a complex pattern that fascinates and annoys. I should be doing more. I should be doing less. This is not what I ordered. I’m in the wrong place.
It bursts from its shell in an explosive panic ridden rage in times of stress. It bites me from behind my eyes. It yearns for me to direct its frustration at those who frustrate me (or is it simply exploiting me?) It is both powerful and pathetic, as no matter how I (it) yearns for violent escape, it suffers and seethes incommunicado.
I continue to conjure solutions, yet as I age, and my familiarity with this nameless foe intensifies, I sense the futility of combatance. It is more than detection. I’ve long grown accustomed to battle fatigue. Perhaps the peak has been crossed and it’s too shrouded in mist (or dusk) to see the down slope. Is this the way of things? How it goes for me? And for all the other me’s before? A laying down of arms. A handing over. A joining of forces. This is the union. For better. For worse. Good night.