There is something in the room.
The weight of the past hour at my back, on my eyes.
In images I wade and choke,
and struggle.
There is something in the air.
The weight of the past week — the screaming, the long hours, what was swallowed.
Something pulls you onward.
The tree and its leaves sway in the reflection of the screen, behind me.
I wait for the next act.
I am not my thoughts… I am perpetual change, motion: like you and all the rest.
Written by hands, a body,
Written by some hours in bed,
Saturday afternoon and a plane overhead,
Light headache,
and the hours behind.
The sky?
A fly at the window,
and the clouds that I look for…
The sky is what frames
every day of every life.
*
What you beat you gain,
if only for that moment;
now there’s rest
or another combat.
*
Are you happy?
No.
I’m writing in bed,
I am at war with myself,
the part of me that,
finding itself alone
and weak
and unsatisfied
with so much,
would go to pieces
again.
I write
because I would win,
if only for this hour,
some peace.
*
Social media
as consumer
is poison;
as action,
as means to an end,
that of giving, serving,
as good
as what we give.
*
This is true elsewhere too, of course.
