I find myself wandering the halls of my mind, aimless. I have a sense I am searching for a book. A collection of somethings. Perhaps a how to manual?
There are times the shelves of my mind are neatly organized, categorized, even alphabetized. Other times it is more fluid, malleable, flexible. Presently, my surroundings are like clouds; they appear to have shape and texture, but my grasp returns nothing. Indeed, my hands shape shift. Like wisps of smoke, diffusing into abyss.
It’s almost beautiful. An improvisation of a well-known melody; recognition just out of reach.
An unlikely composition juxtaposing peace and urgency. I am calmly terrified.
