My soul is wild. It’s flying around. My mind is rarely where my body is. That’s why, I’ve been told, it can seem like I’m not listening. My thoughts drift. When I’m driving, I catch a glimpse of moonlit fog over a mountain silhouette and—while zooming in a straight line with my foot on the gas—I’m transported to big mountains elsewhere and a daydream of parallel lives I might be leading.
Some call it “permastoned.” My imagination’s always working. Reality supplies the frame, on which I superimpose my pictures.
Music sends me.
While driving, my wanderlust’s ignited, and I’m close to veering off my route; at the same time, my soul is loyal to my soulmate. I have a greater desire to nest than to flee. So I’m kept cozy in the home we own. And I’ve found a mate who gets me. Who let’s my imagination breathe like a plant needs to breathe, even while stationary.
What more could a living thing ask for? A home, a husband, and a body that keeps ticking while my psyche ventures into danger zones.
I can’t help the cravings. I keep them tame.
I flip and flop; for, as cock sure as I am, I flounder. Cock sure, indecisive.
Forward march, sidestep. Quicksand, JELL-O.