Some days 20161001

Some days just grip you in a dastardly pinch of inertia.  You see the arc of months plowing into the present moment, your body careening into the tension of the recycling malaise that has become customary, you seize for therapy or some inserted stimuli to shock the system, the energetic charge of the universe to beg collision, to force a delta into the equation and rewire the mathematics for altered output.  The grind of this is it; all there is, some cliché impasse of melted existential crayons creamed in commute hours, keyboard punches, a war within your body, and the echoing silence mitigating by pet turtles that won’t eat their dried shrimp, perch hibernated drying waiting for the season to shift before feet or beak find energy to bite.  The toothless quill to mouth animal or dare sun, just phone calls to therapists that go to voicemail and computer hard drives dead with files wiped, errors in programming of knowing one should want to plug in or get out and one eyes the collision, fixates on the head through the windshield, fearing more the idea that the machine will reboot, not cease, and waking up to more beeping and some asshole with a savior complex spouting lies about better and regret.  There is something naked in the numb gangly grip of being pulled down to the trench of drowning while hibernating, of taking the secrets one keeps and laughing about who gives a fuck about truth or knowledge or stories in a burnt forest.  The days bleed together like match sticks seeing the charcoal gray and black smoldering in traffic and empty living rooms, heating up food cooked once a week in mass to avoid having to realize one needs to eat, just facilitate the mandatory survival pellet and turn the sensorial intake into a surrogate dream of internet, movie, book, or written page tasting the dirt of art fecund, chalky, and blasphemous.  That the art is tears and the street is tears.  It all hurts.  The pain of a mirror and walrus mouth and tasting words that sound like gibberish and participating in conversations like bullets, just swallowing pharmaceutical bloody valentines of arsenic and dried lavender and orchid petals, something grown and died and would kill you if it could and that is at least something other than indifference.