It’s like I’m lying down when everyone else is standing up. My hands grope their ankles like ghosts. They trip over me and don’t even realise. I try to read the scrawl of their respective soul-prints on the soles of their feet but their stories are illegible. Sometimes I catch glimpses up hemlines and I think, I know you so well and you don’t even know it. She said that she was vertical  but she wishes she was horizontal. I would like to tell her that you can’t see the bigger picture from down here. I follow the world through the reflection of their sunglasses. They want to keep the light out. I want the opposite. Life should come with subtitles. Experiences should come with emotional manuals. I would wish for a cheat-sheet but I am too intangible to turn the pages. Sometimes someone sees me (hey, hey, what are you doing down there, silly?). The forest of people float up like oil, but I am an ocean of air, too heavy to pick up. The lines blur. I can’t make sense from the ground. I am on the ground but I am not grounded. Mother says I was born upside down with my roots to the sky. Why couldn’t I have been born the breeze?


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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