There is something savory about the friction furnished by the subtle stubble on your face; it’s like a gentle, tingly massage cueing me in to the currency of the moment.
If not for this, I could get lost in the transitive space between moments…
Maybe my world is just a Rubix cube, twisting colorful facets about one another to encode some semblance of sense. Or it’s a sand castle, shaped in an hour by hands that busily bring the grains together, only for time’s unruly waves to lick it away — and it, shifting, collapsing and rebuilt again, never stays the same.
There is no solidity. My world may not even be real. It’s just a model of something like a world, suspended in an expansive inner void where I’m cuffed and captive, and thus I wrestle to transform the world in every moment in order to escape the context of the moment prior.
If I could stand the stagnation it would be much simpler.
I wouldn’t have to desire danger.
I could let the world sit motionless in the back of my throat, a numb lump begging to be swallowed. But I want the world to choke me up. I’m drawn to the ever evolving state of that elusive “something new”, the series of somethings that force the world to continually rearrange into something new that interrupts the persistent pain.
New pain is better than chronic pain.
Maybe it’s all a distraction.
But life is all about movement anyway, isn’t it?