I ask myself:
what is the essence of me?
Is it in each heartbeat and breath I take,
or is it the invisible, the intangible, the something, my soul?
They probe every darkened corner of my brain,
they navigate the vast map of neurons, synapses, memory.
They record every beat of my heart, my voice, my echo.
They search for that something, the elusive malfunction,
what resonates within the vessel walls, what reverberates,
They use big words to describe
the most mundane of things.
But within each new word lies not one clue,
not one answer to one very important question.
To map and study my internal workings
is not an accurate representation
of the essence of me.
So, I walk through shadows, and watch the
lights dance for me in the most mundane places.
I live my days always falling, never stilled, never without motion.
I collect names of ailments and bury them
along with soured fragments of hope I once
I watch as my world gets dimmer
and my balance fails me.
I wrap myself in promises that snap shut,
answers that may never reveal themselves.
I hope to find the one thing that
I cannot touch:
Return to Life as a Moving Target page.