feeding my inner sylvia

I dread the routine, but I also crave it like a drug.

I am addicted to tastes and rhythms and attention. I am addicted to the tangible and physical and the transitory and metaphysical. I am obsessed with connection and disconnection simultaneously. I hate the messiness of life, but I will defend that same messiness until the day I die.

And death? Maybe that's the universal phobia and pheromone. We are repelled and attracted to death, caught up in cycles.

I feel detached. A large part of me -- or maybe just small fragments that create empty space -- is left in the past, perhaps five or so years ago. Maybe seven, maybe six. Point is, I am separated and floating between and through things, events, places, and people without touching, without absorbing.

I have mastered the art of being the observer. It is a luxurious and deeply lonely position to be in.

My lifeline has become various screens through which I can filter and control. It is a sterile landscape inside my mind, a world devoid of loyal fingerprints. (Fingerprints will always single out and identify another being, simply due to the one-of-a-kind crevices and valleys and ridges of the skin.)

I want to be held just so I can practice arching my back and escaping the grasp.

Someone imitating a zen master once told me that freedom is found in the restraint.

Restraint from what? I'd rather have a solitary moon in the vast pool-of-a-sky than a trapped bulb under a shade.