23/11/2025
Sometimes, I meet the day as if I can not be woken from my dream. It feels a sharp shock to be fully awake in the land of living. I think I am but a witness.
Sometimes, I find myself full of my mother's song. It isn't mine, but I'm carrying it. In her absence, I have held her in my stomach for too long. I hope that when I speak to it, it undoes the shoe laces of my childhood so I can move without her shadow.
Sometimes, I wonder if I have embodied her to keep her or her keep me. Except I've kept all the wrong things I noticed before she went. Bent.
Sometimes, I find I am rushing to complete obsurd tasks in order to have tasks of obsurdaty. Tasks to keep me on a path that feels familiar and safe. A fingers up to resting and seeing how like liquid gum I have become.
Sometimes, I see myself out of myself and wonder who else sees themselves so separate, too. It reminds me of talking to strangers on the bus in my head as a test to see if I was capable of telepathy. No-one turned around.
Sometimes, living in the countryside means witnessing deat, so cutthroat. Deer hits car, baby birds on patio, mother black bird shouting to protect her babies against the cat.
Sometimes, I hear that wind that came in rattling last week and feel its eagerness for me to move with it. But I am firmly holding on for fear I will end up somewhere out of sight, of myself, again.
Sometimes, I feel so chock full. Energy of hopes and dreams and pain and pity. That I could be a character in a movie, but I'm not, I'm here, waiting myself and listening to the songs of my mother.