of Moths or Dust

I wait for the moths of my mind to stop their fluttering for a time.
To settle, like dust, on the surface of this autumn's reality.
So then they'll eat holes in possible plans, if I tuck them away in a drawer, to forget,
 as I prepare to drone through winter.
Or in spring, I can write a word in this layer, if  it's thick enough and has settled lifeless by then.

A Sorry (falling and flying) Mess

I am sick. And I am alone in a foreign country. I don't think I can ask anyone to help me. It doesn't feel very good to be like this. But..even though I am a sorry mess, I know I will be okay. I will try to think happy thoughts.

Every time I come to the end of myself, it is brutal. But then, I recover and I feel stronger than I was ever before. (that was a not happy thought, but...it was followed by a very happy one..so maybe the unhappy one was worth having?)

Coming to the end of myself is sort of like jumping off a cliff and trusting I won't fall until I hit the ground. Or maybe being pushed off the cliff. I never do fall all the way though. It feels like I am falling really fast, but in the end, I open my eyes and I am flying on my own.

Flying is the best feeling in the world.