Lingering fireworks.

They’re almost done. Fizzling. Grand finales. Etcetera.

I can feel my heart beating in my back. I’ve been laying down for a while. Horizontal for at least a couple hours. Maybe it slipped out of its place and fell between the cracks to somewhere it’s not supposed to go. It’s wedged between two low-level bones that don’t know what the fuck’s going or why one of the partners came down from his office on the 33rd floor to do nothing but hang out around their cubicles, but they aren’t about to question it.

I like listening to fireworks from inside because I can pretend like it’s a thunderstorm. When I pretend for long enough, sometimes I forget that it’s actually not a thunderstorm, and that’s nice, but then I remember, and that’s not nice.

I was afraid my dog wasn’t going to be ok during the fireworks. She’s fine. I think I was more worried than she was. She’s sleeping. She loves to snooze.

I love to snooze, too, but I don’t get enough sleep. There are things I could be doing. Exercise. Eating better. Etcetera. I don’t do enough to help myself out. Maybe I don’t want to help myself.


When I’m sitting or laying in an uncomfortable position on the couch, and I fully recognize the discomfort, it’s sometimes several minutes (often upwards of fifteen or twenty) before I shift around and make myself more comfortable. I’m feeling that now. Maybe it’s not my heart beating through my back. Maybe it’s the couch gently tapping on me to try and get me to help myself. The couch knows me, and it knows that I need to take care of myself, and it knows that I don’t. The couch is just trying to help me. The couch is kinder to me than I am to myself.

The fireworks are done.

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