The day happens to be dying - moving along any metaphoric river, slowly and just about as eloquent as a bloated corpse. The steps I take are unnaturally intentional. I have to convince myself, every time my feet hit the ground, not to walk away and walk and walk and walk until I'm bleeding
and walk and walk and walk until I'm dead on the ground. Excuse me, what I meant to say was "dead in the ground". But, I suppose we all know, that would take more than a day. More than this day.
This is the day that misery is felt on fingertips. And love is acutely pressing on my skin, desperate to remind me. Fatigue has clogged my heart ways.
These are the days that I die.
My upright posture, the delicate actions my fingers make, my airy daydreams of no more fear - these things remind me I am human. Which is good, because sometimes I forget.
No comments:
Post a Comment