Tonight we go around in circles, at three in the morning with the sounds of the city in the background and the hope of something better held between tired fists.
Tonight we think of all the ways we could have, should have, moved forward or upward, forward or backward. Illusory movement.
Hushed and intangible the same way the tide comes in and out before our eyes and even if we are looking intently we miss it.
Be a fish in the water, in a tank in a bedroom far from the ocean, untouched by everything. Be an old shoe at the bottom of the basket with no life left in it but good leather soles.
Be a something-from-nothing miracle child in the midst of mundanity and ruin. Have lots of stories to tell with no consequences to show for them.
Would the fish in the tank want to be the fish in the ocean? There is something about the city lights, the flickering against the window. Am I the fish in the ocean……or the fish in the tank?