State of Origin
Scrambling through the midriff of my quarter-life crisis is how I find myself this Friday morning. Rest is a pharmacon, sleep doubly so. My neurons flip me the finger and I smile back gingerly, digging into my pockets for the enhanced supplement I found once but somehow lost track off. I rip at the tapestry till my nails split and that simple feeling of being “stuck”; I’m intoxicated. I take my feet off the tight rope, inching slowly till my neck rests above the twines of nylon, my feeble frame sandwiched between these mountains. I’m happy here.
