Portholes, Cannabis and Swimming in Desire

No sand in the hour glass.

I have to end this vexing, this spiral. Desire moves from marginalia to core text, and in this story there is no happy ending.

The last of summer's campfire smoke finds no barriers into my bedroom throughout the night. Crickets pulsing. Occasional acorns hitting roofs and outdoor furniture like a shotgun fired in the dark.

My room is a boat at sea. One porthole opens to the west through which to see whatever entirety exists at present. Oneport hole opens to the northeast, which, at night is darkest, but at dawn is everything.

Echoes of distant storms and the dark trance of winter begins to hum even at night.

I thought God and nature ordained this. This this. But that's the problem, isn't it – I thought.

More cannabis lately. More need to know or be or see or forget. When I am high, I don't register the ache of bringing anyone close or letting anyone go. Love is sea in which we all swim, this much is clear. Yet, it is not so easy to overlook how swimming is a verb and a verb must act. Will I not eventually drown if I don't swim . . . through desire, through loneliness, through the everyday status quo?

Mortification of the flesh is easier than this.