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I wait for the call that will confirm I've done everything right. the proximity between "my anxiety" and my anxiety begs questions. the questions that answer questions, and not in the space of years, but in unbelievable before-and-after tableaus, the likes of which splatter over my screen when I get curious about fitness. “there are years that ask questions and years that answer them.” no. instead, the wisdom runs at me in the space of moments. the fantasy scrutinized by the reality. flexing, half-heartedly in the mirror, observing in imperfect imaging the whole thing I have going on: “knows better or will shortly.”
But say I put these questions in the form of touch. which is to say if someone or something is tangible, and not a phantom, and I am letting this thing unfold, and I am here and not there, and I have done this and not something else, and I feel this way and know it will pass, and still have dreams, persistent dreams, that all of this guessing, trying, mucking about will amount to more than a renewal of these same terms, will even arrive at something beautiful that makes me weep, makes me shake with tenderness, cry out, be thy elusive self, sit on that perch and let my legs swing, tell the truth with no secret knowledge or expectation, do, without dread, what I said I would gladly do, then no, I will need no confirmation.