In Writing

I don’t feel like rising. I can manage on my side, breath in and out, the black sheep cat nestled in the crook of my arm.

In and out. I can do this, but not much more.

I’m not sad. I’m not even defeated. I’m washed clean of all energy or want, an ebbing tide. Hope is not gone, but irrelevant. My head is under a boulder.

I am tired. It is only the call of the moldering earth that gets any spark out of me. I don’t want to die, to be left to get damp and cold, to rot under careening stars. But I don’t want anything else either.

This is how I feel the day after too much wine. I hate this. This feeling is why I normally go months without doing this. Hangovers get worse the older I get.



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