"Get the fuck up
and get out
of my
house!", he
shouted -
without
saying any--
thing at all.
Inaction
mobilised
me into
nothing.
I let myself
wither, make
it to the cusp
of dying, only
to pick myself
up and wither
again.
I am not
made for this.
Perhaps life
would be
simpler if I
settled for
what I should
have been.
But true faith
is in the
unseeing
of things -
it is im-
possible
to go back now.
Unsee all the
unseeing,
taking the leap
of faith
into a known
nothingness.
Is it faith if
you know
exactly what
it is?
I got up, and
got out. But
not because I
wanted to
bad habits over-
ride intuition
like the quiet
violence of
dreams
silently
rediscovering
the ordinary
in the face
of nothing
describing
a struggle
that is
endless -
ah, that is
ordinary.
That is ordinarily
yourself.
I got the fuck up
and got out -
but I also never
left.
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