Did you feed me because you know how empty you otherwise leave me? Did you not give, did you not take, because there was nothing to be exchanged? There’s nothing to be gotten, or there’s everything, I just can’t know how to want it. Everything is to be gotten, still nothing of yours is touchable so reach as I may, what for, dear?
Can I tell you to take and from that allow me to take what you shed in the process? I’ll make poetry out of it, and I’ll stop being apologetic (you don’t respect that but I can’t stop saying “I’m sorry” because I can’t possibly be doing anything right, and saying “sorry” is a way of acknowledging that before you do).
I can’t exhale for fear that after all air is let out, I won’t know how to breathe again, how to take a new breath and care about enduring. I dread the thought of having to talk to others and be dragged along by their mindwork and have it tangle my own mental threads, so carefully clipped in place.
I know so very little and I have so little time to know anything. It’s as though all the toil and effort that goes toward knowing is just another way to put off knowing. There should be a map for this kind of thing (living, I mean), and if there is one and I find it, teach me how to follow directions and fight the inclination to always go left.