When I was a child I was a wind-up toy
searching for the great secret: how to see past the blindfold.
Truth is, now I keep a close eye on myself
as if I were a complete stranger,
watching with mute patience,
trying to form a true likeness of things just as they are,
audible and blinking.
It is all so hazy, there are so many details,
an infinity of shapes flying at odd angles like bats.
My steps have become urgent, heavy with fatigue
as I try to make it make sense, I want to call it good,
find an antidote for solitude, a remedy for time.
Truth is,
I want to be full,
of anything,
at all.