Shifting, sifting constantly from the past to the future to the hypothetics. The present lost in transit. I am lost in transit.

The weight of inexperience. He says, complexity is not a legitimacy stamp. I blur the truth in his lines. Unblurred, they leave me armour less.

I've trained all my life to master the thread game, to tread it with equal parts conviction and equivocation, suspended high above, air on all sides, free, fall the punishment for forgetting even an inch of theory. I trade the thread with pride and steady toes, all the scratches, crosses and knots on the back of my hand- the albatross around my tiptoe. To walk the line and find my footing to no applause lauds my training deficit. Afterall, it takes two mirrors to hold an infinite.

I continue, in silence and to string sounds, traversing the tightrope, to find on the leaves of plants, rooted on the lines of my life by gardeners I did not hire, nodes of parts I've tried to shed, in the past, the future, the hypothetics, still alive, in green- the colour of the forest floor after the rain, the colour of clouds on a sunny day, the colour of blades of grass we cut our fingers on.

When I think my mastery has ended, I shift my gaze and look up, like clockwork, at worlds above me, exaggerated out of proportion, ambition glazing my eyes. The complexity, the truth, the prayer, as I've known it, is always a level beyond me, the rope to reach it the grind and the goal. But tonight, I also look down, at the world at my feet, untangled, no threads to unweave. Maybe freefall is not a bad retribution after all because if there's one thing training to tread the threads have taught me, it is that hurt and fractured silence can be sealed with gold and my feet, though may falter, will find their footing again. I have fallen before, I will fall again and now, I arrive at my present.