the weight of the week binds me to my bed and I rise later than I should. when I open the screen everything is as I left it. emails are shrugs shedding the tasks nobody wants to touch. I catch the requests in the butterfly nets they’ve tied to both my hands. another day in the spreadsheet and the signs and shapes make less sense the more time I pour in. the hours are measured in cups of tea and thoughts of how I’d rather be. my parents call and ask about the weather and I haven’t seen the sky all day.
once I disconnect there is space to think and breathe. I remember who I am and what I lack and read the news. there is always something to feel. when facts and faces make me cry I feel my pulse and know that I’m still here. but there is always more to do. I walk to the store to replenish the shelf I’ve cleared with the same packaged goods I use to fuel this fragile frame. birds sing and I listen to somebody else on my phone.
the sun hangs later than I’d like. I distract myself with sales and absent thoughts of chasing winter round the world.
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