datura

I've gone into my closet and taken out this old skin I used to wear. Whenever I molt, I hang the old shell up in the back of my wardrobe. I know I should simply throw it to the wind, but I can't help but keep the transluscent shell around, just in case I'll need it again.
So I take it out and it (the old skin) feels flimsier than I remembered, and dry too. So I moisturize it for the next ten hours, carefully, so as to not tear any of the delicate parts, and finally I shimmy my legs in one by one, slip one arm in, then my other, make sure I have it all snug on my body, and then carefully sew it up with thread and tie it up at the belly.
And I look in the mirror, laughing at myself, that I thought it should be so simple. Old skins go in the closet because they belong there. Better, they belong in the fire, burned up and turned to ash, so that progression is the only possible path.
Right now I find my bare feet balancing a trapeze between the old and the new. Of course keeping balance ets tiring after some time, and inevitably I will have to choose on side or the other, for existing halfway in between is tiring, and there's no net below. It doesn't work like that. The circus I run doesn't have safety regulations. It wasn't a choice anyway.
One am...I slept all day to make up for the uttter lack of sleep I get during the week. This does not help reset my nocturnal clock, not very handy right now since I'm tired at the end of the day from my balancing act..