Infinity, Minus One.

Limits. Breaking. A little more tape, and some glue and I think I can stand another run. Fake being alive. Holding myself together and pretending the cracks are not there.

I can’t tell if it is dusk or dawn or if my orbit has shifted ever so slightly that I never noticed the light fading and the warmth dissipating fractions of a degree at a time until I’m in the arctic circle again, wondering how the hell I got here and wondering why I’m so fucking cold. Empty. Dizzy. Paralyzed. Staring down at my feet the entire time I’m wandering around looking for answers. Looking for reasons. Navigating my life by the cracks in the concrete. Looking for meaning and validation as a person, as a man, father, husband, worker, dreamer. I keep running into the same obstacles. I keep cutting myself off and tripping myself up. If it was raining hope outside, I’d run out there and suddenly have an umbrella to stand under. Nausea. Vertigo. I’m stuck in an infinite loop fixated on my feet trying to keep my balance. Working way too hard to make sure I’m stepping in the right place so I don’t crash all the while wondering where the right places to step are, as if making a mistake will cause the universe to crumble. Paint over the mistakes; put more glue in the cracks. All I see are my feet, occasionally catching her reflection in the water I’m trying to not drown in, mistaking what I see for reality. My emotions and thoughts spin constantly. Unstable. Circles. Circular. Cyclical. Dead. Fight scenes and games play themselves in my head making me wonder if anything is real. Comparisons torment my self confidence.

Not all parts of the loop are bad. It’s nice when my orbit takes me around the sun and I get lit up and thawed. Moments like those are addicting and invoke ill-fated endurance and stamina, perpetuating the cycle and in the shadows it’s cold and lonely. Behind the light of the moon and falling through space without any sense of direction or sense of being makes me sleepy. The stars are a blur and they feel so far away. Hopeless, tired, worn out and contemplating letting it all go. Hoping I get lost. It takes all I have to hang on lately. The hardest thing to do is wait for another revolution for my time in the sun, my blip on her radar; to wait for the warmth and the embrace and the kisses like drops of light on my face. Giving up, walking away and drowning in the muck and the mire and the mundane and the deafening silence seems better than waiting for just another moment of peace, fleeting awareness and the stifled affections of brilliance. Come on, baby, play me somethin’ like, “Here Comes the Sun.”

Too many times I tell myself, “This time around is different. Nothing’s gonna get me down. Nothing’s going to own me and make me feel the way I hate to feel.” And I say that after every time I end up feeling the way I hate to feel. Torn between my untapped potential with access to the power of creation at my finger tips and the despair that conquers in the gaps between the ways I feel around her. It is so hard to love her, and it is even harder not to. Her smile melts everything. Her presence invigorates me and kills me. If I’m lucky enough that she looks at me, like, really looks into me, my insides ignite and sparks light me up. And I’m in stasis anxiously waiting for it every time. Paralyzed. Impotent and disoriented. After more than a decade, she still lights me up. With one look, she can wake the slumbering super hero in me, or rip me into a thousand tiny pieces. And yet, here I am swearing again that I’ll not get down like this. That I’ll not let her make me feel like this. As if I’m some how feeling empowered enough to expect a different orbit, to create a different orbit, or like now I deserve a different orbit. As if she even knows what she does to me.

Trying to find that line separating love, devotion and self-deprication from worship.

How do I break my own infinite loop? How do I shift from a love-sick, paralyzed robot short-circuiting in my own heart vomit hanging on her every motion hoping soon that I might catch a brush of her hand that I can pretend was intentional, to a man with a mission, with a rock-solid purpose and a shit load of righteous passion and the means to act on it? How do I transform into the man she wants and needs instead of this poor chunk of dead drift wood I feel like I am most of the time?

I caught a glimpse tonight up on the mountain. It’s a simple solution. Too simple. It’s so simple but it takes effort and thought and dedication and all things not automatic. At least not yet. You see, I have to look up — lift my gaze higher than the circumstance in which I’m trying to keep my balance. Scan the horizon and realize that where I am is precisely where you want me to be and there’s so much more to where I am than fixating on my own attempt at not crashing. I need to look up and see where I can go, see where you are pointing for me to go. I have to open my eyes wide enough to see that I’ve traded the truth of you for a lie: there’s more than her in my view. I need to let you lift my chin up to see that the light I’ve mistakenly called her is you because I’ve placed her in front of you, again. She can only reflect your light — anything else will burn her up and leave me frozen, lost in the deep of space.

I’m sorry.

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