There's a pressure inside
about needing to be more
of something that I am not.
I place these high expectations
on being different or other than this moment,
on solving things that have not yet happened,
things that may never be.
I am observing these jagged little edges of my psyche,
unsatisfied until fully guilt ridden.
Reminding of every indiscretion,
recalling every nuance of my imperfect existence.
For what?
I cannot tell you.
What I know is that this is the moment.
This a moment of true aliveness.
Now, beating in my chest,
rippling the air around me.
The other is also here,
but it is no longer my voice.
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