The chase is on, round and round it goes and where it stops no one knows. I run after control and change as I grasp, but can never quite get my fingers wrapped around the thing. An open fist is an adjustment; no fist at all would be a feat. The fool’s errand I send myself on brings suffering; there would be suffering anyhow, I feel I am the cause due to my attempt to avoid it; another backhanded attempt at the illusion, the goal, control. Adjusting to reality is at first freefall; rarely do I get to second. The shape taken by the shift in my gears to no gears at all dilates my pupils and the rest is white. If the colors come back I don’t know when. If the ground beneath me returns I don’t know how. I am blinded by the light and can only follow the sound.
Stall your reticence
ONE IN A THOUSAND
“Did they tell you the odds when you came in?”
Asked my sponsor
Yes, One in thirty make it to the rooms
One in thirty of those stay for five years.
One in a thousand get truly sober
And are catapulted to another dimension
“What was your response to that?”
Well, I showed the proper amount of surprise
“Yes but what did you think inside?”
I thought, Climb with me or I’ll climb over you.
Not very spiritual is it?
“It worked, you’re still sober.
A lot of folks aren’t.
The company you keep is sober.
There is nothing less spiritual than a drunk.”
Is that why it’s called a selfish program?
“I don’t know.”
It seems to me sobriety is a gift you give the world
But I give it to myself.
“Yes, but you can’t give a gift
You don’t have in your possession.”