A house called Blake.

I can't wiggle my toes,
nor can I feel my elbows.
I feel numb, unsure about what I do or don't think.
Not sure about what I do, don't, should, shouldn't want, think, understand, hope for, believe.
I'm broken, bits and pieces of me lay around me, as I'm a shattered mirror and my soul empties itself out onto the cold marble floor. Why? Why not? Why so, how, who, when, where, what, wendigo?
I don't know what to do, I'm frozen in not-time, not-place, not-anything-at-all. I'm frozen in place, terrified to wiggle waggle a toesy woesy, woefully benign upon the line that ends at no sign, frozen in place while I let my heart race and my feet pace, frozen in place, place, place.
Unsure. I implore a state of decadence upon this very matching of souls, for me to wish, for you to kiss, for a hiss of bliss, a conundrum that blasphemes this silly dream of lost and humdrum. I don't know what you want, I don't know what I have, I don't know, know, know until it's all I can do but sew a quilt full of woe. I can dream, a pleasant little dream of budding blossoms blooming, busy bees buzzing, beautiful birds basking in the glory that is nature and all of it's domain.
I can't wiggle my toes,
nor can I feel my elbows.
I feel numb, and dumb. I imagine this is what it doesn't feel like to smile, but rather to file, file, file away a lifetime of smiling memories, to file, to file and to lock, to lock and let dust settle upon the metal of the file cabinet while I sweat, I sweat a billion drops of would-be dreams for you to chuckle at, to chuckle while I buckle, knees kissing the ground.
I feel numb.
Like I can't breathe, no matter how much my lungs heave, no matter how much my soul grieves, my heart believes my lungs can't breathe, and so it's like I can't breathe, like I can't breathe, breathe, breathe, or weave a basket of tragic dividend so unclear it tricks and stutters until the project hits a dead end.
If my soul could scritch scratch on the back of a government building, it'd say it exists, and then request validation by form number number number. To get this and engrave it into lumber, and wake great massive number man from his humble slumber - he clicks, he clacks, he wiggity wacks the clicker clackers until it's found that I legally have no validity to life. I capsize, I capsize and twist myself into discombobulated rapture, and it's my own self I seek to capture, my validity, my validity. I don't know what it is I can't, what I won't, what I shouldn't and couldn't.
But I want to try. How many roads must a man walk down until he realizes that cliche can be risqué, yet he lets himself trip and stumble along a mass confusion of what-if's, what-if's.

I cling, I cling to off-chance, and indecisive gratification of radical determination. But what's the point, what's the point of chasing after something that probably isn't there? I won't know until I've tripped, and fallen, been dragged through mud and blood, to find where I stand a time from now that isn't now.
A separation of realization and globalization.
My heart and mind, my faith so different,
my heart and mind made available.
Though broken, and often unwaking.
I used to live in a house on Blake street, it was nice.