Tails

I've washed my hands into oblivion, by now, they shrivel and wither under my efforts. My fingers look like those of my future, 80-year-old self, an interesting reflection in a time when all we have is reflection time. We are all making sacrifices. You check in on the cherry blossoms to no ends at all, it's a habit you allow yourself while a freezing rain tries to wash the streets empty. Count the coins under your couch cushions, calculate how long they'll give you a home with a couch to begin with. The puzzle nears completion (the actual, physical puzzle; everything else remains scattered) and you wonder what's next. The to do lists are long, but unappealing, much like the ample supply of dried goods in your pantry. YouTube videos on how to fix trickling faucets, revealing nothing of how long the project has sat untouched thus far. These are different times now, the clock has been reset.

The thing is I dream of vast landscapes, and stories untold, I dream of long walks down deserted city streets, and wondrous adventures in the South Pacific, when the street grew quiet outside my window, the world behind my eyelids roared back into life, do you know one day when I was very young I told my father I would grow up to be a writer not because it seemed the smart thing to do but because when I get a minute to myself all I have are stories bursting to come out, because underneath this thin veneer all I am is one meandering tale after another, it's so quiet out now, don't you see?

The madness out there helps me hold it back.

And maybe now I don't have to.