Up There

There is nothing up here besides my own head. The rushing in of tangibilities and of feelings
and of memories of fog, all shades of blue but many more baby blues than deaths. Up here
beside my own head are my own fears and I cling to them wildly afraid as if all reality was all
dream, as if nightmares came packaged neatly with shreds of brown paper and wrapping
scattered among my skin cells. Here I am at this latitude altering my longitude and not
understanding the exact meaning of either one. Here I am force-feeding myself a dream Iíve
forgotten and a will to change I left behind a decade ago. There is nothing up here besides
some floating dust in sunlight.


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C.J. Opperthauser is author of Cloud the Shape of Bedroom, and a co-editor of Threadcount Magazine. He lives in Providence and blogs at thicketsandthings.tumblr.com.