always at 60 percent

[sll]

Only around 60 percent of me is here, reactive and ready to respond to reality. Forty percent of me is lost to a dream, a fantasy where I'm walking around Brooklyn with fireworks in my eyes, where I'm always in between night and day, when the sun sets. That's a split second of where you can find me. I can't even register information. When I read the newspaper, the words are shut off from my eyes and I'm already off, walking alongside a riverbank, asking myself why beauty is always around me. Is this the glorious life? That I can open my eyes and still be stuck in a dream? That what echoes in my head is not second-hand knowledge but self-bred illusion? I can't judge. The moth burns itself against my lamp's bulb, and I watch it sputter in circles, body on its back, blinded just as I am. I'm skipping over boulders half my size and letting balloons go with my open fists. Humming in the streets of some urban city, make-believe ships arriving at the coast. When I see past the horizon, the endless waves pass over my mind, repeating, repeating, repeating. Ah, another life exists in me. I admit it. Am I this crazy to write this shit? aha. I guess so.