There’s this movement of the little leaves that bristle when the AC turns on. They brush up to hug the blinds. They crinkle like rainwater hitting the window through the screen — this little scream. Fortuitous, maybe, in the throes of some moving agony that they can’t control.
Kinda like where I am, where I’m moving and I can’t control anything. Crippling. You know? Excessive in its power. In the constant reminder of death or the despair of a future of pain, as opposed to a present of mundanity.
And that’s the rub of the thing: to look to the future is to look at the unknown of encroaching castastrophe (happening to me, of course).
And I can’t quite figure out how to remodel or rethink the misery to the point that it’s dead. It’s a depression — a lack of faith in a world of words, or the abstractions and the absurdity of the things that I say that I promise will happen.
The things that I don’t know will, but might.
It’s constant mitigation against the forces of nature and physics, when I know that a man can’t control them. And a misery so overwhelming that it moves me to standing still and taking in smoke to the lung in an attempt to blacken it to a crisp — maybe passing away at an undoing that’s not entirely my fault. An unintentional cancer brought about by intentional action.