Lately I’ve been so worn from the simplest of tasks, and it’s making me think I’m sick again. My back cracks, body aches, eyes hanging as low as a bed of moss; slowly sipping air through a puffed veil, suffocating.
I see myself in the cruelest places. I wonder if I see what everyone else does, or maybe just a dirty reflection of something that used to be okay.
Innocent reminders of the tidings being brought, objects being bought, fights being fought in my mind. I find strength in the bubbles in the air and strangers in love.
What would the festive lights be without the firs, balsam, douglas, fraser? A formless mass of chaotic light, endless potential for joy that lay in a tangled mess. No, they need the stability of their mate, the structure and form the plant brings.
I come alive at twilight, crepuscular in nature and form. It’s in the quiet dark that light breaks through, music rings truer; imperfections fade into indiscernible edges to bump my knees on.
(It’s time to make things right.)