My tides are falling. 

A  line pulled taut by expectation. 

Thin, brittle in my constitution. 

Tethered only by thought, and managed by feeling. 

My eyes hurt. 

I’ve been staring at a screen all morning. 

Grind me down.

 I am a slave to my master. Me.

But where to draw the line, and what side to stand on? 

Who knew there would be this much responsibility. 

The weight of it, a lodestone in my pocket. 

Attracting mirrors. 

Who knew our zeitgeist would be bolstered by rationallessness. 

Propped up on it’s forearm, scrolling,

Strolling through, and gathering meaning. 

The responsibility is by definition. 

And how can we define when our lenses are so singular? 

Words painted by experience. 

Worlds lived in and valid. 

Would I lose myself if I wore your mask and you wore mine? 

Would the weight of your heart squeeze the life out of me? 

Flatten me into nothing?

I want to feel the warmth of your body. 

But you stay over there and I'll stay over here. 

I am so. I am so-so.    

It’s a thin line.

I am pulling taught, 

and failing. 

It's a fine line. 

I mean it's a fine line. 

Or maybe the line is just fine. 

I think I've caught something.