Searching for the unreachable, unobtainable, something. What the unreachable is, I don’t know.  I know it is there, it’s always there – right behind my eyes, itching the back of my brain, scrabbling to escape. It’s in the sky, in the stars, in my feet and shin muscles, fingertips, on the stairs over the railway, it’s around the corner you saw a fraction too late.

It’s down the alley with the broken windows and peeling paint you walked past everyday for months and only just saw. Behind a door that’s not yet been opened. It’s in everything – utterly everything – the bitter taste of life, the swirl of conversation over Polish beer, the pain of dry broken and stamped on chances, the gulp of coffee that burnt the roof of your mouth and then your stomach, the dreary moments that drag at work, the glance out the window, the mental kicking you give yourself for not taking a chance, bumping into someone you rarely see as you walked the long way back.

If there was a conclusion, a direction, sense of ease; this would not be here.

To step out of the body would be nice, fresh. Leaving behind a skin as reptiles do, regenerating into a new, better, stronger, quicker, more efficient self. To step out of the mind would be, unfathomably good. A sterile slate of emptiness.

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