distant fingers

a crooked, brittle wasp still remains in the windowsill, a vague reminder of summer that once was. the house is silent except from the usual creaking and sighing in the timber beams. outside the sky is steel gray, an impenetrable haze. still it lets through a thin and spiky rain.

when the heather is blooming, the summer is over, my grandmother always used to say. but the heather is now wilted and gone like everything else. an era always relieves another, but it’s hard to notice the transitions unless life-changing events occurs. something did occur in my life. but time has not moved in any direction, it is only we two who no longer concern each other.

so I tell myself it’s important to sit down in new corners of the floor. I drum my fingers on the cat’s belly, allowing my brain to take its course. dullness of mind. throbbing eardrums and dumb jaw joints.

I am going to be whole again. recreate an ego, an ego you can cup your hands around and say yes, there you are, I can really feel you. build towers and red lights out of my annihilated person. turn my tentacles outwards and then inwards, in convex and concave movements. recreate receptors to my fingertips. recognise myself alone with plastic gestures.


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