The chai ~ brewed too hot and too long. No cream, no sugar ~ just the bitter obscuring the spice, washing over the tongue. The yard is soaked. For once, the plants droop under the weight of the water they bear rather than from their thirst. One squirrel and one butterfly. Slugs like elongated leaves on the siding. The insect chatter like tinnitus ~ ever present, never noticed, until.The Morning Post
I took two Motrin as a rare offering to the chronic pain and fell asleep to the rhythm of steady rain. I woke around 6 AM, two or three hours later than usual, in a crumbled, sweaty mess. I’d drifted off in the mind of others and woke up inside my own — heart beat erratic and fast, aware of the condition, not necessarily the cause. I took a moment to orient toward the center, leaving my thoughts and body behind. One day soon they may not follow, but today — for whatever reason — they did. My bare feet press into the cool, wet pea gravel cement and I refresh my tongue’s bitter memory with another sip. Is this what it is to be alive, or is this something different? There’s no way to know except maybe to decide.
I remember last night’s conversation, how no one could hear another speak. It was maddeningly incoherent, but still no one would miss a beat. The projected shadows were so long and dark, the source must have been blindingly bright. Fun house mirrors or cave walls? In time it was almost all that I could hear, but it would have been pointless to mention: The ghosts were especially hungry; I wondered if it mattered what you feed them.
In three dimensions we remain in place; in others we lose coherence. Entropy and decay, chained collisions and thought trajectories, so little in our control. We watch still waters beside the sandy beach, leaning against the posted notice of undertow.
We can say, “Not today,” but who knows?