demanifest

A future passing on the backs of my eyes.

The outline. The finer subtleties. Not intentions. Not even wishes. Something more diaphanous. Soft, shapeless things, yet to materialize.

Safer.

If concept leads to form, form leads to parallel possibilities. Easier to keep desire at bay, nebulous, than to deal with defeat.  Paralyzed by the subjugation of my own potential.

Ignoring the want.
Capacity, irrelevant.
Trembling against the prospect of inadequacy.
Outwitted by my own cowardice.