too personal for this right here

Somewhere on a raft, stuck in the middle of a sea of complicated relationships, and all of them or none of them are happening in time.  I can't tell.  I don't know if this is a beginning or an ending or somewhere in the middle, everything has its own music and I'm hearing a lot of different songs that I don't understand.  Somewhere between the Sirens and the song of Persephone when she's going under there are elaborate tangos, and I don't know any of the rules or protocol, but I seem to be dancing.  I liked the lightness of this at the beginning, I liked the lightness at the end, and in the middle I'm always given too much time to start to wonder if I should be here at all.  I always wonder if I should be here at all, whenever there's a break in the music, and that's the worst thing to wonder, because it tells me that I'm not enjoying or afraid to enjoy the ride.  There are sweet noises and notes, and bats fly around my head, and blackbirds come with news, and no one's saying what's really on their mind, so we're all left trying to guess each other's real hidden motives.  And I don't really know mine.  But something about another beginning, that sounds nice, but I don't know if that's really on the table, and I'm not sure if I'm in a position to offer it to the table, I don't understand the table, it looks very messy and complicated, and there have already been lots of meals and no one's cleaned up for weeks, and I'm pretty sure I was there for at least some of them.  I don't relate to myself these days.  I'm too torn around the shoulder of my father, and all the reasons why I want to live in another country.

When I come back to myself, when I'm done resolving these revolving things, I will set out a more proper meal, and it has to come after I've made the meal for the dead.  But in the meantime, let me just go on record saying that if something were offered, I would very likely take it, because the caving in of my belly recently, the new muscles under my skin, and the layers of muscle that are drawing tighter around the nervous bird in my chest tell me that I'm very hungry, but not starving to death, and that is my favorite place.  And I just imagine, in a very short amount of time, when these knots start to untangle, that I would be a good companion, especially for those kinds of journeys that don't have a clear end in sight.  If it's a planned trip, with lots of stops for sightseeing and rethinking the destination, where we wonder if we're eating right or having the right kind of fun, I don't think I need those any more, because I know more than I did yesterday, and what I'm longing for can't be written in temporary images, the ones who keep rethinking themselves for what they mean, and don't know what to make of me.  I like a very complex fruit, one whose sweetness sinks into the tongue like rain, one whose bitterness feeds my fire, one who inspires me to speak tangos in the air, one with the consistency and sureness of the earth.  

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