the first words are always the hardest. but there are things worth telling so they're worth suffering through. what they are, these difficult words, is a matter of perspective. and discipline. the first consideration is a concept. the second is a fact. one is required to make a choice. the other to act. but ultimately, both are necessary to the telling equation. to transform what they are into what they can't help but become. are there really things worth the trouble of telling? yes, I suppose there are.
In the kitchen there's a bagel- this is what I know. my faith has been tested in great measures lately, so certainty about even things as mundane as breakfast are appreciated. something has happened, and it can't unhappen. this morning I woke up with the same heaviness in the bottom of my stomach as yesterday. unexplainable, though uncomfortably expected, familiar. it's become a pattern. doubt has set in. whatever has happened is not going away. as I hide in bed, considering coffee, a grey line expands horizontally and vertically until it covers everything my eyes see with a translucent sheen. a fuzzy dullness. a palpable separateness, with an almost acrid scent- old, and excretory. a stifling emotion blossoms in the darker recesses of a fragile meditation, the hesitant tickle of fatigue builds in my veins. categories of silence spread throughout my synapses. a numb scraping of thoughts like fingernails on a blackboard pocked with glimmering static, invisible radio waves clamoring with whispers of coded messages. the volume knob turned all the way to the left. At zero. But not off. Quiet. I can smile. I remember laughing at a cartoon thing that someone sent me on the internet. I can't remember what the cartoon was, but I remember the laughing, and the experience of staring at something that was making me laugh. I remember the way it made my mouth feel- stretched, wiggly, open. Hopeful. Even though I had no idea who sent it to me. The world has changed. there's no people anymore, just ways to get in contact with them without ever using our faces. I can almost see myself, behind closed lids of strained eyes, smaller, hunched, sitting very still on a shelf I can't reach without a step-stool. But it feels good to stretch. to at least reach toward something that reminds me of the me I used to be. even if it's only in my mind. on a shelf.
as I hide in bed, considering coffee.
In the kitchen there's a bagel- and stuff to spread on it. this is what I know.