To Get to the End of the Song


This is one of those weird-ass nights.  I feel edgy.  Not in a cutting-edge sort of way, just neither here or there and touchy about the absence of place and organizing principle.

I need to take this medicine.  Not taking it is stupid and affecting me poorly.  I don’t have good reasons not to.

Medicated.  I can write some of these words off, but I’ve left this late and the feelings aren’t right.  My arms are angled too high on this lap-desk.  I am swallowed up in the music, tipping toward the sad side.  Toward the anger.  The face feels a bit hot.  I think it’s this room.  It’s not just me for you, I have to look out too.  I think I am be sitting in Rappaccini’s Garden and the signal light is bright enough to ward off travellers, so I have the poison all to myself.  Bright and green and thick as fog and I swallow it like angel food cake.

Alright.  Time is of the essence.  I will be better in the morning.  It’s all lined up to be a great day, dreary enough to keep me from wandering off, I’ve food to eat, I have music to listen to and a task of cleaning yet again some more also and then some so that some strangers can come in and redo all our floors and possibly move my furniture about.  I think there is dust in here that is killing.  Or here are some sha arrows pushing energy through my head.  One or the other.  I want to throw everything on and just lay on the hard wood until I am as flat as carpet and touch all the corners.

I’m not sad, or mad, or wanting to leap out of my skin.  Maybe it’s all just underneath, waiting to crystalize.  Maybe I have to write a bit more to get at what it is.  Maybe I’m mourning.  Maybe I’m grieving.  Maybe I like the feeling of not deciding how I feel.

We were able to be paid today.  That’s something.  I’m glad about that.  There were these blossoms on the garden of thorns, these scarlet and crimson blossoms, heavy with perfume and perched open wide, so you could see right into the black of their yellow eyes.  These instances of beauty and hope, and other less universal emotions, an odd confidence that I could serve  not at the front, not at the fore, but just off to the side and that service could be enough while I tended to my other passions.  That there were multiple tunnels and multiple lights and not all of them trains.

My cat is making that guttural noise as she hunts in the near-midnight darkness for movement and soft toys and the prey of her imagination.  She quiets down, eventually, pleased as punch she destroyed something, real or otherwise.

This is the year that was always meant to be.   Where we get that sometimes, it’s the week before we bleed and we’re going to off of it, where we get that we have to eat right or we destroy what grip we have on moving forward, where we are so proud of ourselves for the flowers the bloom and for stopping right in our tracks to smell them.

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