to paint with oils

in the queue at the departure gate I feel a tickle in the back of my throat. my nose starts to run and I laugh without making a sound at the thought that my body knows that leaving isn’t what’s best for me. my ticket doesn’t scan correctly and it’s late and people are tired so they give me an upgrade without checking. on the plane I sit in one of the spots with more leg room and notice the different tone the flight staff use with those of us in the first three rows. in the air I listen to fragments of voices I used to know and read my way through ancient message threads like some sacred scripture. by time we land my head is heavy with unanswered questions for ghosts I’ve loved and lost. the terminal lights and sounds offend my senses and I lose the scent of what I felt and sober to the steps between me and sleep.

the tickle becomes a scratch that keeps sleep at bay. I try to focus on the tasks thrown my way, but looking at the screen is a chore and I feel dizzy. my brother asks me how I’m feeling. I tell him that I am in love with an idea that will never take life and my taxes are used to build bombs 3 km from my pillow to drop on children because of where they’re born. he tells me he doesn’t think anyone can be a good person anymore; that we can only live and die on the spectrum between being aware of the pain we are causing and blissful ignorance. he is learning how to paint with oils. I am learning how to listen to myself.