It is possible, that the gust of a new life bursts into your zone of the expected, thus tearing all of your fragmentary accomplishments to bits.
At home, too long, with words and words, piling up like some kind of garbage heap – yet, you throw yourself all too willingly into the heap, hoping to irk out some kind of angle, some kind of chirping opinion.
To those on the periphery, to those whose step-by-step leads them to trip over their own tail and lie down in early hours on a painful pillow.
Waking up and opening the window to the sounds of the familiar. Having put oneself in this place, it is hard to shout obscenities at anyone but one’s yesterday-self.
The silence of a room can draw us near to the decisions that we have made: the mistakes of yesterday, the hopes and how they transpired – how we have edited our choices.
Where has my golden strength gone at this hour of the day? To what pleasure do I owe the arrival of this new friend: confusion.
Seeing past this moment, we can see what we can see. But, what of what we can’t see? How will that affect us?
A remainder of those whose words we read, trickle down inside us, to that invisible area on the margin of our graspable self.