Sinkhole

I've once more this suspicion I've chosen incorrectly, swung for the double and though I'd managed the first, the cost'll likely enough be the loss of the latter, that which I'd truly hoped for. An idol's phrase: and so it goes. The mountain was, as suspicions once cast, shit. The weekend - well. The weights of all these expectations come crashing once more, the notion I'm forever again trying to do it all and instead succeeding at none, and this bank balance just staring, forever expectant. Dreams nulled and voided by realities I'd rather not face, not just yet, anyways.

I forget the costs of socializing, it's true. But: it may well be I forget the costs of forgetting even more frequently; they're whiskey high, perhaps, with the exception of when they'll lay me low. Seems most truths this fall are equal parts paradox.

Other things I forget: I forget the taste of expectation, of compromise. I forget the gravity of falling down, flat-faced, flat-footed. I forget how I was going to tell you some of these things I don't know how to say. I forget that we know most who we are by first finding who we are not. I forget that I don't care much for swimming.

I won't be racing next weekend, I don't think. Seems it's the simplest maths I've the most trouble with, and I can't help but feel like I'm eating gravel for dinner again, all skinned knees and scabbed palms. Or, a question: how do you tell when something stops being just a metaphor? Falling feels like flying, as the story goes, until you hit the ground.

I don't think I'm superman, is what I'm saying.