ready or not

I wake to that sinking feeling, the weight of the world all around me. Swaddled in rope and chain, buried beneath the fitful waves, always just breaking the skin of the sea. That breathless moment when identity closes in, all those words and names battering my flesh. All the claims made and debts owed and wounds that never heal. The ties and binds that drag the living along, whether we are ready or not.

The weather pulls a quick one, the afternoon is dowsed by fickle showers. The usual suspects have their suspicions aroused, all the comforts of closed doors and muddy boots ensue. Little bird conspire in the old bottle brush, raising a ruckus until a scrub jay settles on the line above them. From riot to silence, it happens just like that. Everything always changing, just like always. The silt gray sky weeping just a little, like no-one would notice.

There were sounds and there were colors. There were people and animals, insects and trees. There was stillness and motion, light and then shadows at last. The hours changed each our, the day diminished into yet another night. I walk through this world, out of my depths, out of my league. I trudge along the tensile embrace of each place and moment, always almost ready. Maybe tomorrow, goes the litany. Maybe another day.