my thumb freshly shorn
deep clean slit across the tip
a real slice
drain
an offering
unplanned, yet not entirely unexpected
There is so much in life that riddles the brain. The complexity of being an organism that lives, functions by impulse. The recognition of that makes me agitated and I feel ill at ease in my skin. Frogs voices chirburt, bull frogs in the lillies make honks, the crickets tell me it is warm out, that the plants are growing, the soil is soft under my boot in the flood plane. It is good to back on soil. I have missed it more than I know, more than I can even allow.
I am familiar to myself, yet a stranger in the warm dark, watching the impulse drive repeat nature of my being with both shock and at times awe.
The memories I unearth in this mine of mine are interesting. It turns out I have a thing for unicorns and collecting sticks, pieces of wool and feathers, nests, odd rocks; I also like office supplies, so much so that I made a specific point to buy an entire box of document envelopes in order to conduct my affairs.
The undoing is what really destroys me. When I just sit and undo for hours. I watch netflix or scroll websites and read stories by people who tell them. It somehow nullifies the crickets. I can't seem to have both even in thought. As I write about being distracted, the feeling in my chest starts to spin inward and I listen to the critic, whose voice is loud enough to demand my full attention. I physically no longer hear the crickets outside my window. Undo is not a verb.
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