automatic

The day breaks bad, the heart turns lonesome, sunlight tossed around and the coffee still hot and strong. Every muscle aches in its particulars, the burden so heavy, the back so stiff and indifferent. For a moment there I escaped my labor. For a time there I could elude my crimes. But the world it works its mysteries right out in the open. The world does its damage set on full automatic. We haggle over the names when deeds were all that were ever offered.

I'm just the same as everyone, save for specific deficits and complaints. To be undone is to be a drop in the ocean, to be unravelled is to be dust in the wind. Another day, another pebble of apostasy. Another day, another prophecy self-fulfilled. I cough and sputter, I limp along. Tomorrow’s failures so tall on the shoulders of those that came before them. Tomorrow’s gods so conveniently on your side. I would tell you your fortune, but that would give away mine. Every truth spit bears the epithet of spoiler. The devil in the details, the bird on the wire.

The wind is wild, flinging leaf and music, making shadows dance. Gears grind and stick, breaking teeth and  running rough under the idle. I stumble through my chores, ignoring most warning signs. My body is a frame full of chained zombies, my mind a nest of parasites set ablaze. My days are numbered without counting. Everyone’s days are on the clock. I bungle the job to accomplish the work. I butcher the routine to get to its meat. I try to favor tiny kindnesses. I try to appreciate how gently they approach my murder. The world still devours the gentle and the kindly, just as it does the wicked and the cruel. These machines obligate these entanglements. I focus on my close-up work, abandoning my act.