Artax

It's 51 degrees out, cloudless and blue, a Sunday made for walks past cafes, through grassy city squares down to the water where great barges crawl like they're just left to float where they do. Reminds me of Savannah, so practiced at formality it manages prim in 90% humidity.

I could use a parachute.

As March begins, it burrows inside me spinier than I expected, and I expected it to hurt terribly. Ironic that with the sun and the warmer weather, so [nearly] ending my hibernationesque retreat from myself, comes this month of rejection, change, and difficult decisions.

In the hollow part inside me, left by the wilting of a child's garden: wonder, amusement, trust, belief, faith-- I feel this detachment and loneliness pressing out like gas expanding within me, or dark water pushing at the sides of a pipe-- finding imperfections to gnaw at until it bursts.

I wonder if there exists a spring to water myself from.

Sometimes I get shakes when I realize I see things too romantically or fantastically. I worry that if I'm not good enough even at what I'm good at, well, what use is there for me? And losing the good things. And being stuck somewhere/here.

Will I be like Artax, overcome and doomed?