The in between

I walk through these doors a realist rational atheist

I find that today dare I say spiritual

Somehow I have tapped into the underlying river of things that flows out of me and out of you and under my feet

I feel it

It’s not god, but it’s definitely not nothing, I know that now

I don’t know what to make of all of this

It’s a new idea

It’s almost like a new organ in my brain is being born

And I’m having trouble putting it into words

But that’s what we are isn’t it

Poets

To take the unspeakable and put it into words

That’s all that we do

That’s why we’re special

We’re not better than anybody else but were certainly different

Take the things, the nuances of life and existence and the universe and write about it

Put it into words

Metaphor, humor, sex

We take our personal experience and make it digestible for anyone else who wishes to hear it

Personally I find this very tolling

I’m constantly trying to make sense of things or constantly trying to define things that may or may not need defining

I wish I could just say

“Look at all those beautiful trees!, Look at the beautiful sky”

I can’t, I’m constantly trying to reorganize, rearrange and reinterpret for myself and for it to be told to other people

I’m trying to constantly make poetry

It’s very taxing on me

I find myself in-between realms

I’m afraid that I’m going to slip in-between the subatomic particles under my feet into a place of nothingness

If I get exhausted I might lean over on a wall and pass through it into a place I never thought existed and still not be sure it is does exist

Some part of my being will pass through and fall between this place and some other

The problem will be that on this side of the looking glass all you will see is an adult writhing on the floor speaking incoherently as the him passed through the wall and the me on the other side of the wall can’t come back to answer any questions or shed any light

And nothing is resolved

Sounds ridiculous, but the thought enthralls me

The only way I can get to the focal point of anything is to go out of my mind

Some people say it’s inside some people say it’s external

Somewhere in-between constantly riding that razor edge

I’m cut and bleeding

I’m not the same person I was yesterday

I’m not the same person I was last week or ten years ago

And I’ll be someone else tomorrow

Constantly in flux as everyone is yet hyper aware of it

So critical of every moment and nuance to try to decipher and interpret it

It makes me wonder what came first me or the anxiety

I am it, the physical tangible amalgamation of it

That is my role, the thing I will have to get used to and ride out for the rest of my life and maybe beyond

If there is such a thing