It's like love through a hailstorm - you feel comforted, you feel beaten, it will end. But when?

Becoming.

Becoming something.

The idea of becoming something - solidifying, going from atmosopheric condition to a whole different matrix of cell concentration.
From wisp to wasp.
Becoming something indicates that all the air has been sucked out of you.

Talking and seeing that aspiration come out and form, formulate, into something meaty.
You are here, there is no denying you.
I didn't talk your ear off, I talked your ear into being.

There is no end, you know, to anything.
There's no beginning (of matter) for that matter as well.
One continuous movement like a large stack of paper falling off a desk or long grass moving in the wind.
The sound of the little stream as it hurries by.
That large man moving his large hand through her long hair.
The same movement, over and over again.

It's that familiarity, that sweet bird's nest comfort, the continuity of you.
You loved me when I first met you, you still love me.
There is no end, you know, to anything.

Like that overused descriptor, Gemini.
Like the door hitting you on the ass on your way out of hell.
Like being ejected from Eden and first recognizing a difference in days.

Ideas are not springing forth from my mind like Athena on meth,
nor am I made from anyone's slip thigh,
nor am I looking back at my wife to make sure she is there.
Oh, but the sad story I could tell you would break the strings of Orpheus' instrument.

Where is that middle ground - you never hear of that world in-between.
My life is spent in the air, suspended between heaven and hell.
I am the envy of that waxed wing boy. Oh, the moments he would kill for a second of my station.
No time spent in either, I just get to watch as the damned dance for their lives and the sacred scream out in passion, ululations all around me.

Middle - I am the middle child, whose two parents are middle children, whose four grandparents are middle children.
I will always be stuck in the middle in my mind, in the middle of my mind.
Quagmired. Muddled. Muck.

I am searching, with a lantern, in the middle of the night. We are walking through a marshy marsh, a mushy marsh. Whippoorwhills and ether lights abound us.
I am stepping on the softness of rot, and Dante appears in a boat recommending I step off of the faces of men. It is not becoming to step on others.

Becoming. The idea of becoming something - solidifying, going from condensed atmosopheric condition to a whole different matrix of cell concentration. Becoming something indicates that all the air has been sucked out of you.
Breathe, Hair, Muscle, Memory.
The price we pay for a lingering moment, to be a wasp and not a wisp.