Like allergies, an unknown pollen floating unseen.
Despair, an undefined (and unwarranted) abyssmal feeling
of undeserved disparity. It worries me so greatly
because I don’t know why – makes it feel deep archaic.
Undefined, it must be beyond nomenclature,
beyond that age-old escapism of cataloguing.
I used to believe that. Now I just think I don’t believe.
Either way I’ve slept soundly.
But I’ve come to control these esoterics
by two activities: writing and God.
One lends itself to subjective self-explanation (this).
The other doesn’t deserve that kind of logic
