A burnt out electronica kind of day. Every one of my steps seems to synch with something, even the rain, while the clouds upside seem stitched onto the sky in fast forward, a time lapse capture of crumpled white. The lights shift at the corner with an audible click.
Things are shifting in my home. As the rhythms finally arrive, so we drift apart. David’s finally on the dole, which helps us, but not him. At my insistence, he’s finally begun talking to me, what we worry is that it might be too late. What we worry is that he’ll fall to far inside his head to ever climb out. I am doing my best to wait, but my best is a shaky thing made of fragile days. I feel abandoned underwater, under pressure. Words catch in my throat, ready to burst out as an explosion of pain at the slightest thing.
I find myself awake in the middle of the night, my cheeks wet, with no clear explanation for either fact.
My warm core today is made entirely out of Saturday moments cut up and punctured, clipped together like magazine pictures, inspiration to reference for later. Curled in my seat in Waterfront Theater, singing along to a pop song famous when I was born, recognizing the lines I helped write on stage. Sweet treats of contemplation, pop culture, and intrinsic appreciation. How much has stayed the same, in spite of change. Johnathan’s daughter is in Kindergarten now, he says. I haven’t seen her since her fist was the size of my eye. The soothing song of machines.