Almost Twenty-Three

I pause at a line. It looks like an ocean, though it appears as a person too. It looks like the wall of my room, but sometimes it looks like me.
I am shackled by a thought maybe even two. Three months of dancing with my favorite demons and four years of oblivious survival. Five fingers collide with mine leaving me with a sixth sense of unrivaled helplessness. I look at seven days of meticulous repetition rendering eight a very lonely number.
I count again in hopes of finally leaping from eight to nine dismantling and cutting all lines and ropes of connection. I want none of that. I want ten, eleven, and twelve. I want thirty-four and seventy six. I want hundreds and three thousands. I want a million thoughts and nothing less than a billion dollars worth of right decisions and cashed out bravery.
I want infinite countless-ness and meaningless sounds. I want the absurd and the surreal. I want the fruitful desert and the rotten garden. I want more than I dare ask for. My hurt and my hardened skin heart into a beat of song and a song of word and a word of lines. The lines and the lanes; spiderwebs of possibilities and limitations weaved into my clothes.
I pause at these lines I cannot move. I pause at a whirlwind of infinite choice and nothing at all.

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