Heavy. Tired but unable to sleep. Restless but incapable of movement. Can’t make decisions. Can’t think clearly. Can’t formulate grammatically sound sentences. Can’t remember when it started slipping away or what caused it or why…

Why.    WHy.

                         WHY.

             wHY. whY. Why?

Who the hell am I.

Not a clue. No idea. No concept, no sliver of recognition, of familiarity.
No where to start from, no where to end up. Nothing in between.
I looked in the cracks, to see if it fell through. I peaked under the bed, to see if it was hiding; in the closet, in the pantry, in the basement behind the furnace. In someone else’s hands.
If it went away I hope its having a good time. If it sent me a post card I’d burn it. I’d be angry that I was sitting here with hairy legs, when it was tanning on a beach in Phi Phi.

What does the land of lost things look like? Is it profound and grey, everything piled in a non-descript heap, melding into the object bellow it, above it, in it.
Or is it clear. Sharp. Everything lost, suddenly found all at once, so concrete. A cotton sock sitting at attention next to a multicolored umbrella right along side someone’s dignity.

"…Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them? To sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation devoutly to be wished…To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause: there’s the respect that makes calamity of so long life; for who would bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, the pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, the insolence of office and the spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes,  when he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, to grunt and sweat under a weary life, but that the dread of something after death, the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns, puzzles the will and makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, and enterprises of great pith and moment with this regard their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action…"

The mind goes faster than the mouth which is slower than the heart which doesn’t quite keep up with the body. That’s not right. That doesn’t add up.

What does anymore?

Twenty two after nine, and all is well. The house hums with a forced sense of calm and quiet. You’d think, in the hushed darkness it would be easier to find it. Alas the cover of night makes it all the more difficult. It becomes twisted and confused, gnarled and hidden away even deeper in the shadows.