memoir

The day winds down, the night is loosed-- something seems a bit familiar. Outside the wind clatters, the voice of the atmosphere, the reach of the sky. I know I have seen this before. The depth of shadow, the thrust of cement. The roads that run and run. Maybe it's only me, but I am pretty sure I have done this to death.

The words are only the symptoms. They are strung along on unwashed flesh, they bead like grease or water. They compound and aggregate, they swarm upon the skins of things both visible and hidden from detection. They are eager to leave the things that anchor, trying to become the meaning themselves. It is this vast chasm that grants the shape that saying makes us long after. The notion that there are reasons for too many words, or too few.

I am bone tired, sick of much of what each day has to offer. Not much of a sieve sort a story from the gleanings of this world. Not much of a wright to straighten out the weathered timbers and the splintered beams. Just an unreliable narrator muttering through the tyranny of the ordinary. Not the average, just the mean existence. A cliche of a cliche. A language cobbled together from grunts and screams, written in slow circles, speaking only of itself.