I wished for snow, but all that came was freezing rain. I can hear it rattle off of the air conditioner housing, then drowned out by the vapid hum of the indoor air filter. Now the outside seems to have melted, all the sounds have gone away and left a tangible, susurrant absence.
In the mornings, after I’ve unfurled my back and ground vertebra, muscle, and viscera back to place, I’m full of sanguine anger. Then I can almost feel the sense of bone on blood on bone of fist to inconsequential Napoleonics, of shattered windbags and broken windpipes. The morning was a long time ago. I’ve none of the piss and less of the vinegar left. Night time is a time for depression and depressants, not for activity.
This is the first I’ve put finger to keyboard for anything longer than an item description in six weeks.
I’ve an amplified version of the sense I’ve had for nearly years now, that I haven’t much to say and less inclination to say it, but the pent up statements are grinding away at me until what I live seems a very narrow life, thoughts having lost their cogency and devolved to impulse, so that the simple life I thought I’d affect has become, instead, the life of a simpleton. A mind not used now in heavy atrophy. Finger tips at word ends, reaching for the upward light of continued sentience, return to sapience. I don’t apologize for big words or unclear thoughts. This is for me. This is how I wake back up.