Touching Nothing.

It's times like this where I just sit and wonder. I want to perch on top of the fence, or slat myself between two branches at the top of a tree. Lay down and think. Stop staring at my hands and start looking into the future. I'm tired of running around this same circle, hoping for something different, but always coming back to the exact same thing I started with.

Sounds a lot like track, doesn't it?
But I'm so in love with the sport, you could never coax me to hate it.

I'm dreaming. In short, almost painful spurts I am. It comes and goes. Feels like needle pricks. Just short and prodding. I see colors. So many colors. Not many people. Not many things. But when I do see people, or things, it's for fleeting moments. Such sightings that jerk me up in the middle of the night. Cold with sweat. Skin prickling with tingling anticipation - all for things that will never happen.
And I appreciate practice so much for the fact that I'm on a tight schedule. Getting up early, running, channeling the energy built up with these little episodes in my head.
I try to stop.
But it just won't go away.

I'm haunted everywhere. It's like a spirit. Like a ghost [such an appropriate, ironic description]. The dark corners of my room store whatever evils won't leave my mind. They harness my deepest thoughts and intoxicate them, inoculating them with memories and emotion.
And thinking about it - this makes it sound like I believe there are monsters under my bed. But I don't. I only believe in the existence of meandering thoughts that refuse to let go.

I guess the hard part is being forced apart.