I've done dishes. I've finished my filing. I've carefully and methodically practised my scales.
I build my lists, step one, step two.
There are two kinds of growing up. (I'm so binary, it's sickening)
The good kind is in understanding that you own your life, that it's all on you but it's all yours. It's the kind of joyful responsibility, a wondrous doom...
The other is stagnation, solidification. When your life slows down into the every day, when you're so consumed by the world that even your hobbies are certified and approved.
I pay my bills. I worry about paying my bills. I try to get a job. I fixate on not having a job. The floor, the cat hair, the dishes.
The snow is a dance, but I see falling water. My joints lock up, and I'm...
I have no time to just think. It's so basic, so regimented.
I hadn't realized how much I depend on the headaches, the pain, my broken body to give me the chance to just stop, to just breathe, to disappear and see the fucking stars.
The wind and the dance... passing me by, and my words are dust.
Useless.
Seized. Creak.
Move, dammit, move.
Now, now, now.
I miss when my hands could sing.
Thump, thump, scrape. |
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