Maybe, maybe.
Maybe it’s because it’s been raining for two days or maybe it’s because my life life feels out of control and I haven’t slept a full night and I’ve been waking up in pools of sweat.
Maybe the vibration of the city and my own are out of sync and my clutch isn’t grabbing. Just like that old Tacoma. When Mr. Han taught me how to drive standard using “no” and “yes” — our only shared words. I remember driving back to dad’s shop that day. Without even looking: “You burned out the clutch.” I wondered what that smell was.
This winter feels long and timeless. I don’t know what day it is. They don’t really matter anyway, days. As long as you make it to the next one. And the next one. And I have.
I’ve been eating more. Last Thursday I realized I’d only forced down two scoops of old rice and beans with back-to-back coffees. Felt like I was gonna puke. Now I can at least put down a meal, whatever’s in arm’s reach. Anything more is too much work.
Does anyone else feel this way? Has anyone felt this way?
Last week was much worse. Last week I wrote that I thought one day could’ve been the worst of my life, based on the way I’d felt. An interesting thought: I wasn’t sure enough to say so definitively, which is something you think you’d be so sure of. I wasn’t so confident in my misery to even express it on a piece of paper… one no one would ever see.
I just knew I was close. I could feel the hot and the cold and the pressure and the weightlessness hitting me all at once in a way that made their respective energies indistinguishable from the next, yet still strong enough together where the conscious mind doesn’t work as meant. Thoughts form but dissipate before you understand them. You realize there are two minds: one that creates ideas, the other trying to figure out what to do with them. In this darkness, there is some gap between the two, explained by a deterioration of myelin or cosmic energy tracks colliding or the unknown unknowns.
But I wrote all of that last week. This week is better.
