colour

I fill every moment with sound or movement. space can only hurt me if it’s empty. and so I swing from one day to the next, doing all I can to fill the page with anything but time for stillness. sometimes the lines are colourful. in these moments I forget the purpose they serve to distract from the fault in the organ in my skull. I see a cat on the pavement on my walk home, or hear from someone I love, or feel the final rays on the back of my neck after work. there is colour and it finds me even when I’m hiding.

I dream of days I’ll never live and wake to winter again. a world of ghosts and tasks and consequence. I see them on my screens and on the street. I collect excuses to justify my perpetual mourning and build the case for why I’m broken. when I wake I read the news and laugh at the way I am. I think of everyone who needs love more and go to work again.