frit

Frit: a verb combining fray and knit.

This is the mill, the waterwheel that —just— wont stop.

Back to a time before now. There were moments of glamor, safety in numbers. Daring solo missions in skirts too short and heels too high. Nights of desperation led by a burning desire. Just as easily it was loneliness. Fade, the future is flat. Stolen moments in alleys, bathrooms, taxicabs. Long nights, no lines for a girl like me. A quick smile and sharp tongue get more attention than cash. My drink in a tall glass, a lit cigarette burning untouched in the ashtray, an open book in my hand: I read. No pretense here, just a solitary girl a long way from home. The night would grow long in shadow. Walking, I count the stars and listen to their music.

In a time before now the world's pulse lulled me to sleep— if sleep ever came. Now, I am restless far into the night. I hear the roar of engines and the wail of sirens, my bed is cold and long and empty. I stand above it and watch my animal sleep. I pace and my fingers tick, twitching to the pulse. I put it all away. That life is stored in boxes. That life committed suicide.

Jump to now. I struggle in this life. I go to school. I work. I eat and drink and fuck. I listen to birds. The surprise is the contentment. It is not dull. It is not glamorous. This now is potent and potential leaks in from it's seams. I find myself wanting more from life then ever before. Life won't budge an inch. While defining the terms of my existence, the ducks and chickens go about their business. Business is fast becoming my operative word.

This was a lesson in frit.