The Unchill

Out of the unchill, what was a chasm becomes, once again,
a step.
What was something someone else did becomes, once again,
something I can do
(I thirst).

Somewhere, beyond the range of my ears, there is
an audible click as I snap back in to Myself.

The clay has been in the corner for so long I can't count the months.
I couldn't reach it, though it's been right there. Suddenly there is
a path ~ again ~ where there wasn't one before.  It is wise to
keep an eye out for disappeared paths.
They appear and disappear in accordance with how close I am to the
vat of congealed fear and how easily I forget that I can look in without falling.

In the dark I have faith and forget that the paths are there at all, and that I will return.

Knowing how little I see is beautiful, smells like chocolate, feels like fucking, like
rolling around in the dark dank of the forest floor, and I am free
~ free
free ~
~ free ~
and once again I am released from the prison nobody else has
sentenced me to but myself and the body I must stuff myself down into,
as if it was ever big enough for the likes of Me.

I measure the roadblocks that sometimes pop up in front of my desires by how
jealous I feel of other people who are doing the thing that I want to do myself but can't get to.
Though one part of me is numb to what I want to do most, another part of me
unhampered is thirsty, delirious, at the return to play,
at the coming of the spring.