when I leave the day behind I sigh into the pillows. there is relief: I have conquered the hours of light and every hill they had me climb. I wake to the feeling of falling behind. it lingers, an itch on my every thought until I’ve done it all again. if I do well and finish with time to spare, I’ll try to sit in stillness until new bugs need fixing. I find ways to spoil my time; and if I can’t, I create them. there are rituals I can’t explain, the echoes of an anxious child I hardly recognise in photos on my parents’ mantel. the habits transform and fall in and out of significance. I don’t have the language to address them. I’ve put them on the list.
on the phone I hear voices I miss. when I’m asked about myself I feel tired and reluctant to try to find the words that would make some kind of sense. the asking is a generous invitation and I am an ungrateful recipient, though I know I am lucky and should confide in those I trust. it is easier to listen.
I talk to colleagues about stress and not enough time and do nothing about it. I watch parents pull children from crumbling buildings destroyed by bombs I funded and I need to check my emails.
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