14 Apr 2018

The Theory




Sometimes I look at my feelings the way I look at an overflowing basket of laundry.
Exhausted by the day, I cannot do them. They will not be straightened, they will not be pressed, or
sorted. They will not fold themselves into tidy sensible piles

I often feel my life is a train journey, traveling on a backward facing seat, I’m always being pulled, never guided. I cannot see where I am going, only a distant, distorted glimpse of where I’ve been

Sometimes I look at my pain, and it is old, an old haggard creature, with sadistic cold yellow eyes that won’t shut. A shriveled, deformed body, a fierce immortal soul.

Sometimes my sadness seems like a theory, a scientific theory like gravity, a theory I cannot afford to test.