Everyone’s out of focus when they’re moving too fast to be seen
Here’s the thing about everywhere:
it’s nowhere specific.
The words you want are heavy?
Fine.
You’re thirty-two and running out of money.
You check your bank balance obsessively
like it might change its mind.
You haven’t had a real address in two years.
Listen.
Everyone’s out of focus when they’re moving too fast to be seen.
You want clarity?
Stop moving.
You want sharp?
Stand still long enough—
I don’t know how that sentence ends.
I don’t know how any of this ends.
You say you want your fire back
like it’s something someone took from you.
Like it’s not right there in your chest,
burning through every city you run to.
You’re not faded. You’re overexposed.
All that light you’re looking for? You’re bleeding it.
That’s the clarity. That’s the shape of it:
You, hemorrhaging light in another rented room,
calling it darkness.
