i walk slowly. and stare up in to space.
when i concentrate on my movements i feel like i'm gliding across the floor. every step is perfect and deliberate, the sway of my hips is in perfect accompaniment...
but i know from the outside, i'm not gliding, i look like a lost 5 y/o girl.
i drive quickly.
sometimes i'll take a corner in the milkcarton, and it's perfect. i don't have to slow down.. it doesn't groan or pop... it's like the car is an extension of my body and i have it perfectly under control.
but i know from the outside, it's an old beat up wagon. nothing sublime.
fuck being outside.
Sometimes you feel like the world is yours. That it is all one big puzzle that you know where every piece fits, an impossibly complex lock with a dozen different rollers inside and you've got the key that opens them all...
Then that moment passes, and you realize you're just one silly human being, tossed against the rocks by the waves that are life.