I keep forgetting
and I keep typing
“I don’t know”
what is it that makes me tick?
I want to think its art.
but I’m am afraid its not.
Art freezes me, paralyses me.
Fascinates me, elevates me.
But it doesn’t make me tick.
Do I even tick?
I think, if someone was to ask, what is wrong with me. I would say:
Or better said, the absence of it.
I find myself rhythm-less.
Like I am trapped in intermittence.
Like I am bothered by a mosquito at night. never knowing when its going to buzz right my ear.
My emotions are disturbed by unexpected visits.
My piece of mind is dependent to the frizziness of my hair.
I cant deal with impulse buying;
I cant deal with an unexpected phone call.
Because I lack rhythm.
I just don’t know what to do next.
So I sit in the corner of my bed and ask myself: “what do you want?”
So I wonder to the nearest text box and type: “I don’t know”