The world drifts into the dark palette and the traces of shine, that dusk that deepens, that clock that keeps counting despite the hour. There is that dream longed for, those attachments that hold us to the earth, those tricks of evidence that allow even the worst of us to linger on longer. There is the rising wind, the promise of rain. The truth of life, the tricks of time. Nothing is ever wasted for long.
Everything is waiting for the weather. Everything turns on suspension of disbelief. Another day where my weaknesses win out and all my strengths are relative. Invective and enmity laced with cloying questions. My skill sets, so limited and brutal, offer little in the way of respite. Just another night of stormy romance, minus the romance. Just another night of the peculiar mathematics of my life.
Later I will indulge myself in some dusty fantasy. Later I will pretend long enough to take away a little of the sting. The clocks turn back, I keep on aging poorly. The corner I paint myself into always the furthest from the door. There is this litany always, want versus need, dream versus the whole waking world. I will indulge in what habits I have, writing it all down. I only ever learn by slow repetition. I only ever leave out everything that matters.
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