sometimes i wish i could just go back. that is all i ask... whirling-twirling into those black recesses of your mind. you know they're back there. yeah, that area 42992 you saved/savor especially for me. go there for me, please and thank you. it was grand, wasn't it? those few seconds of utopia always get me approximately 7.3 nanometers from where i started [in the opposite direction, i might add].
when i go to work i think. i think about me, me, me, and you and my dreads. i've been hiding them for the past two weeks up in a granny-bun that is oh-so-ouchy and makes me feel like i'm hiding a part of myself, just like i run away from the part that was once whirling-twirling-stumbling-bumbling with you.
what would happened if i reached out? would the inner-recesses of my 1991 old-mobile internal combustion engine explode from all the negative pressure it gets from never being used? would my granny-bun explode in the middle of a t6 cardiac-progressive care ward meeting and show my dreads to everyone? will the white people think i'm trying to connect with my inner-botswanian roots and will the black people think i'm trying to connect with my inner-punk, inner-wannabe self? all the grey people won't think a thing since they're all as fucking apathetic as i am. or at least what i pretend to be.
to be.
pretending.
i need to escape this dream-world and fall back into your arms.
that is all.
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