Not-Being-There-there

I am beset with besetment; the sky refuses to acknowledge my beingness, my being-thereness, my being-in-the-worldness. Skies are like this, so I was forewarned, so my complaining falls on deafened ears. Pray tell, why would a sky, any sky, bother to acknowledge my being-there, being-here, being-in-the-moment of there and here? None I would imagine, none whatsoever. My being is incident to a sky’s being, a sky’s being a sky at all, so why the belly aching, you might ask. Because I need to know, I have a strong hankering, a need to know where I sit with the sky, where I am in relation to the sky’s being, its being-there, being-in-the-world, its skyness, so to speak. It has come to my notice that the sky, any sky, is a whore, a whorish whore, so I best leave it at that and get on with the day, my dayness, my being-in-the-day, my being-there but not quite, just a hair off, a hair out of the day, a being not-quite-there-there, anywhere.