I am as one whose thoughts are weary, worn, and wanting.
Wanting something to wrap round, a position to defend, a purpose to proclaim, and a defined task to sink the canines of causality into.
I feel the strange mix of a tired toddler whose best days are yet to come and that of an old woman whose better days never were, but whom must, in the winter of life, manufacture memory.
I observe with ambivilance the mixture of order and chaos; beauty and brutality; abuse and advocacy — all relentlessly present.
Visual noise bothers me. Any unrhythmic noise irritates me. The humid heat sticks my skin to the middle aged meat that sits like flaccid flesh.
It was not so when I first began.
I aged somewhere along this journey from naive to knowing and I like it not. Knowledge is a heavy, yawning burden that sits in binders at the base of my bookshelves, and on the bottom row of my battered soul.
Somewhere in the papers and pages and the bound books expounding on human cruelty — I lost something soft; something beautiful; something innocent.
I feel its loss; its nameless grave; the privation of its presence — and I mourn.