Sleeping in the summer:
You woke up this morning with emotion, with the pain of unusable, unmanifested eagerness, a frustration that so often comes with a paradoxical lethargy that usually makes these mornings a piece in a larger phase. And you didn’t think this unnamed emotion was right, you never said it made sense, but you welcomed it because it felt warm and you have found that the realm outside of right but not quite crossing the boundaries of wrong is where more of us ought to live anyway.
And so you thought you might go out West. You have always wanted to see it. And at the same time you chastise yourself for being so easily duped by romantic notions of romantic places. This, you remind yourself, is a logical fallacy. A wrongness. But you will probably do it anyway, and you will find a way, as you are so apt at doing (and that is probably why you have survived) to make the wrong into right like Jesus Christ turned water into wine. And when you find nothing, you will take this nothing and you will call it space, and you will say it is God and that you are the light that fills it.