The Line

If I could be any animal for a day I'd be
up all night,
because you don't want to mess up a decision like that, and if I could be 
honest here,
this isn't about animals.
Like it's not about other things.
Those are just distractions.
Just more little side steps,
to keep me from thinking
about the elusive little line that I keep waking up in the morning and looking 
wildly for...
Looking all over for...
So that I'm starting to see it
in places it couldn't be,
that it definitely isn't in.

I just mistake it for other lines,
that remind me of that line,
like the lines in the brickwork,
or the lines on the pavement,
or the lines I draw to keep myself from crossing them.
Between safe and not-safe.
Between right and not-right.
Between good distractions and those distractions that are not good,
Like thinking about lines again,
Like writing lines about them,
about how they're everywhere,
about how I try to ignore the wrong distractions and focus on the distractions that really 
distract me,
that put this on the sidelines.
Like drinking a lot of coffee,
Like coloring inside the lines,
Like walking around campus and reading Shakespeare on my phone just like old times,
Like drawing my own lines,
Between me and wrong-me,
Between weak and strong me,
or was that one of the wrong things…

You know what, scratch that out and replace it with much more literal lines,
like the lines of Shakespeare,
and stop making up fake lines,
Between me and future-me,
Between her and future-you,
Between thinking about things from different perspectives and obsessing,
Between this and confessing
that I've been thoroughly and intentionally more-than digressing,
that I've been down-right lying.
And though it sounds depressing,
I am actually trying,
And I would gladly give you the shirt off my back, and the chip off my shoulder with it, 
were it only that easy,
to get straight to the bottom line,
but then somewhere along the line,
I get lost in philosophy.
I get engrossed in ethics.
And I get stuck in syntax,
and thus trapped in entropy.
I get missing in action.
And I get called upon to find myself and instead I find I've lost myself in the firing line.

So I try to get back in line,
by drawing lines on paper,
or falling back to Shakespeare,
and trying not to fall as I am crossing the blurry lines across the sidewalk,
But at least they're blurry lines,
and they relax the worry lines,
and if I slow the hurry, 
I know I'll surely 
find the line I'm looking for in no time.

The End

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