Balloon string. Thread hanging, too much body weight, too much too much.
Yoga keeps saying Be The Witness and I keep saying holy shit.
All I am is a witness. Never here. Always perched in tree keeping not-so-silent, crossbow in lap. Knees ache and I shift, but ever vigilant. Stuck like balloon. Airhead. Vata. Call it what you want. Not attached and empty and garbage and I hate you is what I call it.
Look, I get that I’m screwed up. I’m just not around to fix it. It’s like asking Atlas to take a break for a second from his day job to fold his underwear or something. World topples heads will roll my head will roll and I’m so fat I’ll roll right over you. Squish. At least it’s something.
