these are the days.

These days when my mind can fool itself and myself in the process, when I forget what I should be feeling, or what I should be doing next as I step through the bathroom door, when I keep being reminded of things of the past year like reruns on tv that seem to have made itself a part of my routine, when focus is myth, and concentration is heartbroken because of that fact, when emotions are so scrambled that even pain becomes white noise too easily which I blame on the little chance for Solitude, or sometimes I think that every thing is just hitting me from all sides that it is almost impossible to see straight into tomorrow, and I am going blindly into the future again, like a kid again; these are the days, these are the days when I forget to live and forget to breath in or breathe out or even stare in wonder at some thing or any thing that I have not seen before, days when I seem to be losing myself in the background of my own thoughts, yes, these are the days I am not aware of my possibilities, and going blind in the illusions of impossibilities that I fool myself as potential realities, as something that with enough action and thought and feeling and wanting and longing will come out of the ether fully formed and wanting to be embraced. These are days of forgetting, of going through the sludge that my mind is creating out of nothing and out of every dream that I have; and these are also days of remembering.

These days when I am not me.