my gaze detaches these white walls from their anchors and a box is formed no longer. gravity ceases to exist yet i remain fixed along with those things my skin touches. i watch as the ceiling floats into black space and the stars speak volumes of history in my eye pierced through with bits of illusionary many and few. things. i want to lay back and view a world detached. separated. filtered through my perception of physics. physical. phantasy. phicton. phony a word negatively connotated in comparison. i once wished to be a great oak, a flock of birds. something grounded. something graceful. yet inseparably combined. my energy can not settle on any center any longer. transformations broken that once easily flowed forth. flow, even my writing lacks this component and must i write and write this choppy mess of thoughts tangles tangible nothings. i am getting so frustrated with my lack of ability to put forth what i want to say. i reread and read again what i've already put down and am filled with discontent with what is now being said. there is no flow. the river is a rocky dried up thing with fish flopping about trying eagerly to maintain life where there is none. i miss spring. i miss feeling as though merging was more logical than not with the natural world around me. i miss the sound and scent and feeling of absolute that complete concentration on the transformation brings forth. why do i now lack this ability for the absolute? absolute a term i have redefined for myself. i do not know its physical definition, only its pheeling. a feeling i feel is far from my fingers unfortunate touch. and for what reason? what is it that i let sap my mind of this for that which is not.