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.
