A preponderance of upward glances was a hint that I was young. Hands on handles of briefcases, kneecaps and belt buckles bolstered into my field of vision as a mainstay. Serving as a reinforced reminder of my self imposed age and height acting as an impediment. An impediment to hinder my course to some unknown destination I was drawn to.
Brass colored plastic door knob at the end of the hall. Dodging the waist down image of passerbys (or passengers for that matter) to either the entrance or an exit. Creaks and groans of a hinge tapped into blueprints of senses stolen from my sub conscience. Conscientious control of fear and caution aren't prerequisites for moving forward, they are competitors. Caution always loses when your sleeping. Curiosity is no longer an itch but an impulse and feeds on fearful feelings.
Walls comprised of bookshelves form an edifice, bent into a spiral, set with stairs that lead me downward. I can hear you in my head, the words leap out my ears to crash against the bookshelves and spill across the pages. The sense that I am lost is so present that any illusion to the contrary becomes a contradiction of the only thing thats constant, that trapped inside myself is a concept in collision with external constraints.
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