My body is revolting, Bentley. The metaphorical blizzard has confused it, and it wants nothing more than to be pared down, stripped, eviscerated, the pressure too much, an undressing in the most violent of senses. This chill the same as snow. A heartache in my gut, a more appropriate of places for such an ache.
I started writing this last year, when the snow had started, or was, or not at all--no, I remember now, no snow, just death.
And where am I now, nearing a year later. These days, a year feels like a circle. No moving forward, just back around, like winter. Hello again. Round and round, back to the beginning. Some advice, Bentley, to find a straight line from the path of a circle? Is the only way off to jump? But I apologize--questions in general are so vulgar.
Instead, I'll wait, legs crossed, looking out the gap of my curtains, feeling the temperature drop, day by day. The leaves disappearing with each gust. And maybe then, when the silence comes, I'll walk out into the snow, follow the straightest of tracks, a new kind of undressing.
No comments:
Post a Comment