This.
The breathing everyday, the waking up, the air forced into lungs, the feet under the ground, the way the hands slice bread to make sandwiches, the coffee down the throat, the momentary relief in an elevator alone, as the doors close, and at night, as sleep falls. The cupping of the face with elbows on the knees, the wiping of tears, the crumpled tissues in the bag and the heaviness of all the stuckness, all the disappointment, all the borrowed courage, all the books read, all the films watched and all the leaks where it all all fell through.
And all the words.
The way words are held in, the way they form pockets in the lungs, air bubbles of words stuck for days, months, then years. Eventually forming into hard stones that turn into black holes that suck everything out from inside you, suck the life, suck the language, suck the marrow from the bones of what you always wanted to do and what you always wanted to say, leaving you standing there with all these holes that were stones that once were words that wanted to get out, but now they are slits in your being like stars in the skies and all you can do is fill them up with work and sleep and food and small moments of love that someone gives to you; the grasp of someone’s child, the casual caress of a parent, the joke of a sibling, the smile of a stranger, the nod from a neighbour; the recollection of a memory, you stuff up those holes with these tissues you find along the way. To stop from leaking, to stop your life from leaking out, to stop you from being emptied.
You plug up the holes and plug up your ears and search for music to fill up the silence. You walk along rivers and oceans and anything else with water. You write shit. And go for walks.
You walk and walk.
And pick up tissues along the way.
