The Floor. And What Now?

When I have nothing left in life, which happens every few years or so, revolution cycle occluded from my conscious periphery but ever in place, I walk.

I walk out of my way to pass the time and accumulate sun milk and asphalt pheromones and salute the neighborhood cats, just so I can stimulate the melatonin nestled in the nether folds of my brains, so I can sleep through the night.

A good night's sleep gives me the strength to try and tie again all the tiny, frayed strings that make up the foundation of a life livable. The strings meet in fragile knots that titter under the weight of EXPERIENCE.

It's been a long time since I've walked. Like, really walked. Like, walked to the precipice and stuck a nostril over and took a hard whiff. Every time I wandered out too far these last few months, my (now former) boyfriend would call me back. His deep, backthroat notes cut through the smog and to create an aural trail for me to retrace. Love is a ground, only when you look too close, you see the tiny threads it's thatched from.

Similarly, I haven't written in a long while, though I also write more than ever. As a reporter, I think in pricks and jabs – one sentence paragraphs trimmed of any winter weight. My words don't walk any more, they are hurled from one place to the next.

Hopefully, in the absence of a floor (love), I can learn to walk for length again. And my words can learn to wade. 

Or: per - I - pat(h)etic.