The Dissident

It was the longest day of the year,

but there was a month way back when,
when I was not in love with anything but my own life,
and it felt good,
to be detached from everything save my words,
and my mind,
and my ability to grasp at straws with only a Remington in hand,

and I was happy,
with a few notes here and there,
I was content,
I was myself,

and it is only now that I know being full of one thing,
sometimes of nothing,
was far more wholesome than being half of you,

or anything else for that matter,

or anything else