090/365 - Tunnel vision (Explored)

Lately my unhappiness has become so pronounced, so finely articulated, that at times I can actually feel my inner gravity shift.

In the place where the body holds its balance, everything drops. I can feel the falling, like a sharp-clawed cat with its nails stuck in the window shade, slowly dragging down the darkness and shutting out the light.

You could play that sadness like a harp. Each string is anchored to my center; each pluck reverberates. My bones ache.

I cry while you’re sleeping. Single tears run solitary tracks down my cheeks, trickle past my ear, and then I can’t feel them anymore, as if there were some tactile blindspot somewhere past the earlobe. I wish I could sleep. I wish I could catch my breath. I wish I were not so weighted by things—nonsense acquisitions and possessions, things that pack into boxes and vans, things that must be mummified in newspaper and carefully drowned in styrofoam peanuts, things that don’t mean anything but fake the play of life around me so I don’t dizzy myself with loneliness: I’m too busy with my things.

Things like so many rocks filling the pockets of a housecoat, standing with legs frozen in a lazy river, waiting for water that will never rise.


#28 – The Bruise



So many people have children without realizing the enormous, almost impossible task they have undertaken.

Feeding, clothing, housing a child: these are the tasks you can enumerate and quantify; they can be held in dollars and closets and streets, concrete, actualized, undeniable. You either provide, or you don’t.

Somehow, that is the easiest part.

The intangible is so much more difficult. What does Love look like? Your child will learn at an early age; the knowledge will embed in viscera so tangled and intrinsic, veins must be snapped and bones broken should you wish to remove it. The slightest bruise of emotion drives down deep into the body, a rotten root.

These definitions inform reality, truth; like a magnifying glass, the world is sharpened through them—no matter if the lens is distorted.

How can people have children? The thought agonizes. A scraped knee is patched, and forgotten. But the look of lovelessness stretches inward infinitely, a repeating reflection. A wound that never heals and more so seeks out the weapon of its making to inflict the familiar sensation, like a tormented, unfulfilled ghost.