It could be.
"I hate not writing."
Something else I hate: not being angry. Rage is potent. Is it power? "It helps." The paradox of killing for love. There must be reason. (That's not the point.)
So where is the line drawn?
I run this daily. A lack of principles demands adaptation. Analysis. And variables change, and I swerve, and I am a series of glimpses at perfection. Which is to say: a mess. Which is to say: chaos.
I sit and turn a wheel, work my big toe.
Aimlessness; it's aimlessness.
Still, oases taunt, tether. Unspoken promises are swallowed. The supplication of surrender seethes off the streets. Disappear here. (They don't tell you where you'll reappear.)
Am I this? The filter only stays clean for so long, before it melts. The heat. The grime. Can I write these anymore without lying? I cannot relate to myself. What is what, then?
(Which is to say: moving is living.)
I gave myself a year; time is running out.
you make believe that you are still in chargeIs that what you wanted?]