These days I’m floating, a bit askew, a few inches from the ground.
I can touch down when I need to—when I have to teach or work my second job—but other than that, I’m untethered from the world.
This has been going on for awhile. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s not, well, it’s not much of anything. Better than bone-crushing anxiety or quaking depression, a slow dissolve ends in sorrow, nonetheless.
I noted a coupla’ posts ago that I don’t know if I’ll remain in New York, if I can afford to stay here, but as real as the financial questions are, the really real issue is that I don’t feel really real. I’m not quite here.
Brooklyn, Chicago, if I’m not, here, I won’t be, there.
Again, not an emergency; the lack of urgency, perhaps, is part of the problem. I’m not drowning beneath, so am not fighting for air. I’m low in the air, not fighting at all.
AbsurdBeats 