I am aware -almost fully but not quite- of the meaninglessness of my words, but that seems irrelevant, I am losing myself again and they are my straws. They wash at the banks -solid, reliable, meaningful- but carried always by the irrevocably not, ignored by the many: ‘what stream?' Which bank they walk is of no consequence, the illusion is the same. Bundled words, crammed together (held by hope?), giving meaning to each other, something to stand on. It’ll waver from time to time betraying that on which it lies, but they just shake it off; a little sea sick, just a little nausea, it will pass, nothing more. ‘Flights of fancy ‘ll give you unsurely feet young fellar they will’; you gaze too often -‘don’t stare directly at it, just keep it in your peripheral; and don’t look down’- it wavers, unsurely feet, you’re in. You're carried, tossed and turned. The banks remain, you see them, but you are freed. They sway still, but hold no sway on you. The irrevocably not engulfs you, takes you under; it’s mind’s Thanatos (ironically -or is it appropriately?- not a word ‘he’ used). It is. Just is. But you're losing yourself ... or is it me? Me, I, myself, A… clutch at those jetting by alongside; ineluctable modality of the audible indeed, or at least the conceptual. They are my straws, they'll carry me back.
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