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The line. It’s always there. It’s just, sometimes I can’t see it.

When the line is beneath my feet, I can feel the path. It’s like, I can see a plan, a series of steps that lead somewhere, somewhere meaningful. And that no matter how hard it is right now, as long as I stick to this line, then I will be ok. I think to myself that there is a point amidst the absurd, a point that allows me to move. Inch by inch, crawling, but making progress, to the stability of my delusions.

On other days, I may awake and, much to my dismay, find myself unable to feel the line. Just like that, in an instant, with no apparent cause or trigger, it can be gone. And I will scramble to search for it, to cling to it. But it will elude my grasp and my vision. Without purpose, without direction, without reason behind thought, I am no entity. I am no embodiment, I am abstract. I am fearful, I am hopeless, I am nothing.

Without a guide to follow, without a destination to seek, I am no traveller but a wanderer. Lost, unable to move. Who do I cry out to amidst the descending distortion? Will I always be so dependent on uncertainty yet insistent on order? I ponder if it is my incompatibility with intimacy that drives me to accept isolation, even if it is not as my heart desires.

Companionship and Solitude - in both I am destroyed