so when the fly slams itself into the window, desperate for egress,
and my head throbs with an unknown ache, product of thinking about life instead of living it, i know i'm not alone. i'm not the only one who has wanted something so badly they do everything possible to sabotage their pursuit. i'm not the only one grieving and hurting, so eager to become more than i am. someone that might be worthy of this world's gifts.
that's just one of the ways, isn't it, to stop yourself before you start? to believe that you have to earn love. the brutal paradox of my existence is that i love this, i love this; i can't stomach it, it's wretched. but i do. i always do. i'm conditioned to. but the conveniences and comforts and luxuries i enjoy all feel tainted with the history of slaughter on this stolen land. it's a psychic hurt i don't know how to hold. i don't know who to ask to help me, either.
maybe this is just what days off are for when you work retail. at work, surrounded with time capsules of diligent loving, i think about putting my name alongside theirs. i could do it -- i just gotta work smarter. i can write, i know it; i can feel, i never stop.
but then i get home and undress the pretty packaging on all my open wounds. i wake up feeling like i'm missing something. i eat leftovers and i nap until my head hurts, i move slowly through the tasks of bathing my dog and then myself, laundry, sweeping, tidying...
and i wonder what today was like for my eight billion fellow earthlings. did you make art? did you laugh? the flies are at the wrong window. the apples were small this year, tart and crisp.