Still Sane

Big.

[big.]

It wasn't straight. All it was were zags. Zig-zags. Crooked little lines of trickling skin. Except they weren't little. They were big. Big little lines of trickling skin. No. Big. Lines. Of. Trickling. Skin.

Yes.

Hopping all the scotch and jumping all the jacks exhausted me. The lawn of my forearm had been cut to a T and so the grass tickled just like the big lines trickled. I skipped a spot. No. They jumped the spot. It was an empty circle on a splattered canvas. The missing puzzle piece that was a mere task. Except it wasn't. It was hard. So. Very. Hard.

And it hurt.

The "i" was what had gone; who had left. It squeezed through the cracks and crevasses 'til a retreat was found. But what had happened was the wind. It had blown the "i" back to it's rightful seat; on stage. The lights and the camera and the action was what had forced the escape. Though what the little -- no, the big "I" had learned was that the skin was to be trickled, the lawn was to be mowed, and the wind was to be blown.

It was inevitable.