your Sunday revealed itself before you could begin the day. swept with bundled thoughts and rapid percussion of a beating heart, you heard the beating for two. muscled organ working overtime that made it funny to believe you were dying. it was a new sensation that would follow all throughout the week. sending already paranoid matches to collide with the way you've been feeling regularly. since last month and the cause for many a sleepless night, you turned to the only thing you knew.

it was taking a bike ride at the Crack of dawn or rolling on four wheels and a piece of a beat deck. a transport you never would've thought to partake in back in your old hood but something about living on the west for as many years, gave the freedom to be who you were. but who you were was ever changing. to some you were one person, to others you were another. you flexed and shifted on behalf of environment and oftentimes it was a way of survival. inherently so.

unable to gift your way through everything else, you couldn't do so while riding or front for the family that offered shelter and a place to mold what identity was but that morning you don't know who you are or where you're going. all that you do know is the ebbing ache in your head with a pubescent echo. singing to remember. to remember what? it's what you ask while kick pushing down the middle of the street, going with the flow of a distant but close echo. believing you were getting further and further away but it isn't going far.

it follows you down the road, remaining with you like the shadow that hangs on your trail. as the city breathes in the lateness and rises to exit into the dusk of Sunday, your plans to sleep through it never manifest its reality. instead you're left to be pulled from the physical world in a glide of awareness. cinched between multiple worlds or what would be a combination of earth's and knowledge that whispered in the hull of your ear. you look to the side and no one is there.

you looked to the opposite side and no one was there. centering hearing things more than seeing them, punched the speed you went pushing to skate away from it all. the demand to be heard, to be known by a teenager that wasn't you but claimed to be. it wasn't the nova you once knew but a variant. possibly the access point where insanity and lack of sleep converged. you just understood in another fashion that something was wrong and it was taking everything in your power to eliminate the factors of being mental.

no matter where you tried to train your mind to focus on, it diverted and pointed to places that weren't your current environment. suddenly you ached for New York. not queens that raised you but the Brooklyn borough which was composed of communities and areas that all held specific cultures even the ones still fighting to remain with the modernization of colonizing. you couldn't shake the sights and sounds that were more aerial than being grounded as you were moving faster in the glide down the street.

it was never ending. never to change and taking on a sense of motion sickness that the memory seemed to reveal. you tried to slow down and in doing so facilitated the set up of running into a parked vehicle. you turn your back foot to the left to save from going into the Cadillac truck and when you do, it quickens your reflex in a way that thinking it wouldn't save you from crashing into the back of it. you didn't have the hops to cover the height but felt like it in the blink of a second.

you were going to clear it. it was going to be glorious and the ability it took for such a feat was made for someone a little bit linky and had less mass to the wagon you were now carrying. just like that, the fantasy of clearing it, which you saw clearly but through the lens of the teen stranger, fooled you into believing you could make it. Now there was a spill on the ground and a resounding horn going off, waking up at the back end of the street. you tried to avoid causing a ruckus due to the hardworking residents who were trying to catch sleep before they had to meet the sun for work or other morning engagements. It grew loudly as did the cursing yell that befell from your lips.

It ached, hitting right in the center of the body to compound with a banging headache. That not only amplified the voice, but added striking outlines to images of people, places, and things that crept along him as a spider would. Eight-legged morphed into two, and mirrored a crawling humanoid. You shook your head, thinking it was another concussion causing the visual lapses between what was existing or all a figmented splatter that broke up into signs of webbing. The knock back on your ass lasted just as long as the alarming horn.

You try to get up to shake it off. To grab your board and start picking up into a jog to go back home. That jog was a hustled walk in a dizzy waver to and fro. Keeping you from walking with haste and away from the dent you may have left. But there was no one coming from the house where the truck was. Not immediately but you looked back to see the light at the door phasing in a shadow that spread and flourished into a smudged arachnid. You felt the chills run along more than your arms. It spread to your legs and it lit the fire to start pumping harder than what a wobbly trot could take you.

You wanted to be home. Be away from the sense of demented sightings that did more than rouse you out of the the bed in the first place. Learned lessons and unforgettable range of a view that was unreliable, had to be kept to yourself.