I’ve begun writing poetry again, after an intense slump. It is amusing to see how something as static as catatonia can accelerate, becoming even more and more wrapped up in itself until the body is so idle that it runs out of itself. The fuel of nothingness is the most expensive, and I am running out of things to offer besides my words. Truths that I thought were natural, carved in every body, until the sky pulled itself back and revealed nothing that could be linguistically confined.
It took eons wrapped up in months to realize that I refrained from properly grieving my mother not because I couldn’t remember anything but because if I let myself, I could remember everything, and because I have too much of a propensity for dwelling in my missing. I can put myself in the air of a specific day, remember exact pangs and turns and passing appeals to my senses.
Post-refractory period swim, I am able to be able again, moving the way that I have needed to for a while now. ♦