To Each Their Own

It seems I filter in and out of all sorts of parts of my reality,

Dipping into others and mingling there for brief periods of time.

Seconds turn to minutes,

Minutes turn to hours

And like a flash, I'm gone as quick as I came into thought.

Like a blink, a few lines on a page and somewhere else yet again.

I suppose there's the waning thoughts,

The wonder if things are alright.

Typically managed to some sustainable effort,

but far beneath the gravel surface, I'm pushing back tremors.

Holding in tightly the oncoming flood of the underground water,

forcing it not to cave in the Earth beneath my feet.

What could I say to that?

Could I call it suffocating?

I've already done that.

Could I express some lament over the irritation I feel of being trapped?

Could I harbor resentment for the ones who tell me it'll get better?

When the fuck is better?

-scoffs-

I could.

I have done that.

I don't mean to become this broody, stalking monster that paces back and forth the keys of my board or rolls about the top level floor of my house like some filial beast stuck within its cage to keep the world from seeing it.

No.

I could be a more attentive wife,

An expressive mother.

But I'm about as broody as a chicken in a hay box for the last ache-and-a-half, wondering if I'm ever going to dig my way up instead of going down, hoping I don't strike some cavern to sink my ass into it.

So I am here,

not entirely here,

nor there.

I am around,

Meandering like some godforsaken entity,

on a path of creation that is as slow and rolling as a construction site operation paid by the job and not by the hour.

Progressing.

In progression,

never really truly in regression.

Not really certain of what's viable enough.

I'm sure there's more tunnels down here,

if only you could see them.

I'm hardly bluffing.