Msm.

In the midst of libertarian discourses, and rants about lost cutlery, the space still exists.
Though carefully veiled with pride, and which most certainly will remain.
That, and a self-preservation hood.
The space of habits. and of blankets.
Of the sun rising every morning.
So blatantly. Simply.

A part of me, almost disapproving.
The outward narration of woes. Of a denial of existence. Of following herds.

A space colonised, transformed, through miles and self-induced complications.
That which is expansive. of joy and secure laughter.
That which I am so sure of.
And then, Maybe, maybe, I will grow up.
Till then, I catch myself, and the quiet declarations.
This is how I want it to be. I think I really do want it to be the long mile.