Riders in the Dying Hills of Heaven

I wonder if this is what it's supposed to feel like.  I have a limited scope of reference, and as such, I can't help but compare them side by side.  They are never the same, just as everything is never the same.  And there are many moments when I catch myself, worried as ever, thinking, "is this what it's like? Is this what it is?"  There are few things that have clear descriptions of the way they feel, the way that they're supposed to feel. All I know of it is my parents dancing in the kitchen, a shattered oven door, and my mother's voice as she read to me.

Worried as ever, that is me.  My fingernails bleeding, hands with calluses from where I've rubbed them together too much, lips bitten.  I have always been worried, worried, worried, for as long as I can remember.  My mother always said there were oceans of what-ifs in my eyes.  I don't think it's the what-ifs that paralyzed me as much as the already-haves.  My penguin sheets, my aching knees and bleeding nose, my broken oven door, the saying of no, bottles of pills and angry journals.

And sometimes, all you can do is go.
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All I've been doing is listening to French music, Spanish music, old soul music, as I wander through the stacks.  It's an odd sensation to snake your way through books over and over again.  It almost feels like home.  Almost.  It's easy to lose yourself, up on the third and fourth floors and particularly on level A north.  It's just you, and a bunch of old books. Dust, timer lights that tick continuously, and it's usually warm, warmer than it should be. I remember feeling like that when I was really young, back when we lived in Cambridge, when we would go to the public library.  I used to disappear between the rows of books, winding my way through, running my hands along their spines.

I basically do the same thing now, except I get payed for it.  Kim asked me how I could possibly stand my job, because it's so boring and mindless.  She's right, it is, but at this moment in my life that's all I want, that's all I need.  I'm exhausted, to the point where I can't remember what it was like to be well-rested, what it was like to not feel like a shell. I lose myself in the stacks, quiet in thought and with only the echo of my footsteps and the tick of the light timers.

Sometimes I synchronize the two, tick tick, step, tick tick, step.  As I wind, and wind, I measure my steps, my breaths, to the ticks, to my thoughts.  I feel whole again, like I am one instead of half, instead of a bunch of parts scattered and torn.  I'm just one. It's nice to feel whole again.  Almost, almost whole.
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July 2016

Back when everything was good

or was it bad? I can never remember.

All I can think of is the scratch

of couch cushions on my thighs,

blue glare from the screen,

inches from our face(s).

I remember the way the world smelled

when I pressed myself to your neck,

the way your nails nicked,

always too long.

I remember what it felt like when you left,

and at that, you were very good.

I remember your eyes,

the creases on your skin,

the curve of your lashes.

And was it good? Or was it bad?

I can never remember.

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"Who's gonna tell me which without making it work?

Only to be the healer whose making you hurt"

Est-ce que tu réves d'avoir des réves?