bruised
I awake after sunset, and every little light feels like a fresh bruise against my eyes. I squint, I stagger, pulling drapes and flicking switches. No mail, no messages, no sign that there was anything I missed. My vision adjusts slowly. I stand on the front step, watching the rain drizzle down from the eaves. Cars shush on past. No one notices, and neither do I. It is going to be one of those nights.
I plan my idles as I plan my labors, thinking and rethinking my possible courses and provisions. Placing tools and weapons at opportune places. Making schedules to break, deadlines to miss, ways that I can turn some little thing into the end of the world. Most martial arts, the first thing they teach is how to fall. But mastering the fall, that takes years of devoted self-destruction. If you really want to break a few eggs, you can skip the omelets.
My hands ache quietly as my fingers work the keys. This habit of parsed documentation, of rejected texts and lingering moods dissolved into words, needs to be met. The night awaits, full of rain and strays. All the small neglects and violence left to perpetrate. The workings of broken words, left out too long to use. Wasted words still too dear to throw away.
I awake after sunset, and every little light feels like a fresh bruise against my eyes. I squint, I stagger, pulling drapes and flicking switches. No mail, no messages, no sign that there was anything I missed. My vision adjusts slowly. I stand on the front step, watching the rain drizzle down from the eaves. Cars shush on past. No one notices, and neither do I. It is going to be one of those nights.
I plan my idles as I plan my labors, thinking and rethinking my possible courses and provisions. Placing tools and weapons at opportune places. Making schedules to break, deadlines to miss, ways that I can turn some little thing into the end of the world. Most martial arts, the first thing they teach is how to fall. But mastering the fall, that takes years of devoted self-destruction. If you really want to break a few eggs, you can skip the omelets.
My hands ache quietly as my fingers work the keys. This habit of parsed documentation, of rejected texts and lingering moods dissolved into words, needs to be met. The night awaits, full of rain and strays. All the small neglects and violence left to perpetrate. The workings of broken words, left out too long to use. Wasted words still too dear to throw away.