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.