stablization

As I look at my small red clad feet I feel the world shift under me. This is not a new thing, this is my thing. I have always questioned the foundation for which I was set. The ground has always been riddled and rocky, and I balanced, spinning like a top, spinning like my thoughts.  I wonder of what substance I am made of since it is not a stable substance. Closing my eyes I can see myself flow like liquid, fitting in the cracks and flowing back out before it I can assume the shape.
The trail of liquid, the clanking of ideas, the consistent loss of footing, these are the things I am composed of. I am made of fairy tales, imaginary valor, sacred contempt, and withering will. Still I not afraid of these parts and pieces. I don't scorn myself for lack of internal normalcy, because Christ in Heaven what is that and where would that place me in the grand scheme of things? Once placed there would I want to visit, take up residence or long wistfully for the inky flow of my soul to allow me passage away?
Who cares if the I fit nowhere yet melt into everything at the same time. If my mind rides a back road and my veins drip ink what does it matter? I adore the constant inconstancy of what I am and all that I become. I should be a million things and somebodies but it is hard enough being me at times to focus on the shoulds. The am's possess me and I am happy as I am broken, battered, fearful, fulfilled, flawed, loved, scattered, loyal, and inspired.
In youth I searched for roots. Tied myself to rotting limbs just to say I belong to something bigger although never better than myself. I dirtied my temper, would forsake my desires to feel a part of this dying murderous thing. To feel the wobbling flux of a thing that I couldn't really belong to. I choked on the guilt , mocked my own heart and dreams. I looked in the skies pretending they held the answers, pretending it was the weakness of my voice that refused to part the clouds. I stared into red rimmed eyes, I stared into the face and existence of insanity clenching my fists to keep from being swept away, swept in, carried off in the waters that drown me.
Now I look at the clouds. I stare at the beauty of the formations, searching for shapes and rainbow's. I have weakly severed faith and family as one severs a sick limb, but still feels the phantom pains of where it should be. I grow, I learn, I melt into my own cracks. Christ above or mother below, I'm am still uncertain, but what am I ever certain of most days aside from the uncertain path of my thoughts and the inevitable rush of my blood, black as night pure as ink.