Like a punchline to a joke,
To get to the other. Side.
Timing is everything.
Wish not to ruin the laughs, through interrupting breaths of, fresh air that never comes easy. You break and you pause and you desire to smoothly transition from, one word to the next yet you freeze. Like it is the middle of December, and with your teeth chattering violently, you cannot spit the words out before they are icicles before your face. Then your mind races quicker, faster than the words exposed to the arctic air, MOO, you ruined it. It no longer is funny, you said it. The chaotic mess is as sloppy as this explanation. You stand there, in the middle of the twelve month, alone.
Timing is everything. You can throw the words across the room, Jai alai style if you want, but if it is not in order, they crash firmly to form a nucleus in the middle of a swirling vortex of shapes and lines. The definitions lost and meanings confused. To get to the other side. You stand still, firm. You start to sweat, nerves working, ready to drop everything you are holding. Stand up straight, back perpendicular to the floor. Crash. Tears hit the ground like waterfalls. Knock you backwards, hunched over like you are in Notre Dame, ring the bell. Weakness in the knees.
Timing is everything. Move to a town, finally out of the wretched parent's place, only to settle into a hurricane. House shook, foundation broken, time to restart. But you are not ready to restart, you don't want to restart. Pushing forward you are drained, mosquito by mosquito stealing away your liquid vitality. You like the feeling of it but you fear that soon you will have no blood left to circulate. The only thing you can do is drench yourself in bug spray, absolutely saturate yourself. Square one. Hopscotch. Grab the rock, turn around, restart. It hurts. The stone hurled up in the air and cracks your head open as easily as an egg shell. Leak out yolk.
Crash and burn. Time to restart. Because timing. is. everything.
"You don't swing a bat after the ball passes you."
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