I want something more than nothing. As if the way the ants crawl along in singular formation, carrying leaves sticks and food means something other than the random, the obtuse. I want to fly.
Not to hop in some enclosed, airtight container and be lugged from one end of the globe to the other while being served re-heated, pre-prepared chicken pasta. No, I really want to fly.
But my belts in the corner and I could do it now if I wanted too. Do what? Don’t act so naive. Strung up like cured meat. Hanging, dangling, gone.
Let’s not focus too much on the internal however. For the internal is sloppy. It’s messy. Strewn. Broken. Gone. No one likes to hear that. But flying. That’s something to talk about.
I want something more than nothing. Just something a little more. That’s all I’m asking.