Sheer curtains inhale and exhale the faux summer wind while the sun on a celestial swing. slips in and out of my eyes, as if whatever truths have precipitated from the night are too much to read all at once. Sleep lies curled up in a corner, in a tangled heap of time, a slice of yesterday still hungover from waking, a bit of today still unwilling to stir. How does one describe that time of rising, Marcus, when emotions are so hard-lined, everything seems so definitive, so certain, until the mind surrenders to the opaque fog of yet another day?
When you open the window and let the world in, it doesn’t flutter its wings and sip tea from delicate bone china cups set on lace doilies. It barges in, trailing green slime from an almost forgotten bog, in its hands pieces of tomorrow like a broken Rubik’s cube, in its breath a promise so stale, you wonder at its audacity to persist. The instant it draws you into its churning whale belly, that clarity is clouded by the acrid bile.
I wonder where we can find our best selves then – alone, interpreting the world in the blazing clarity of solitude or in the eternal undulation, caught in the tide of accomplishment and compromise, between the grey and purple, gaining and giving up every single moment.
Can you solve that puzzle before your tea gets cold?
you see the way it works
the caterpillar never meets