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.