Perhaps I have come to a point where what I want and what I need are two different things.
Perhaps there is more to my sense of entitlement than I had first given credence to.
Perhaps there is small bug somewhere in my brain that merely wishes more grey matter.
If ever there was a time where interaction matters, it is this time.
But time in this matter, in this interaction of space beyond the boundary of desire, in this
Immovable placeholder between choices that are not really choices as much as they are
Mere possibility. Mere supposition. More fodder for the cannons of the irreducibly impressed.
I wonder if perhaps my wonderment is not so much desire as it is what I need.
(Real or perceived)
And what I need is to be is in the future.
And yet why I write such drivel is a mystery
A wrapping up of possibility into a knot
Loosely tied, binding not so much arbitration
But instead the arbiter
And with no way to escape
Except to wrap tighter
The confines of possibility
Until I am hanging
Dangling all my modifiers for the world to see
What is simply impossible for me.
Perhaps then, what I know and don’t know
What I presume and what I annex
What I perhaps call myself
Sideways glances at the rack)
Stranded on pathways with forked roads
Difference paraded as if makes a difference
All these things
All these patterns that nonchalantly expose themselves
Mean nothing to me