insomniac stream of consciousness--addressed

This is an older writing from elseblog -- just posting here to keep my fragments tidy.
The damn pills don't work. We are just talking. What are we talking about?
Hard to recount. Do we start over every day, a blank slate that some good
pupil has washed clean with turpentine and aloe? Noxious fumes
never penetrate, they envelop; they soothe. They bring false comfort,
like suicide. But all comfort appears false.
Will I remember that in your arms? Hard to recall.

I still believe in comfort, and sorrow, and sparking flint.
I am softsoftsoft...I am a box of kindling heavy with dewdrops.
There is no satisfaction in finding a twig that won't snap underfoot.
Who doesn't cry out when broken? A smoldering fire is no joy for
eyes used to firecrackers. My bending is supple, unyielding, insufferable.
You can break your neck on it if you don't watch out.
There is no narrative trace, no guiding thread,
Ariadne would order us both shot.
We don't deserve a labyrinth if we are only climbing out of our own skins.
There are questions one should bother to dream--bulls don't just show up on your doorstep.

No one decides, although one may pretend otherwise midway. Who holds the log book, recording all these dank comings and goings? But we're not writing a book. There is neither truth nor lie here. Worse, there's no fiction in our fiction. There is no address between us, there is only the approach. An eternal approach