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.
