Track

I lose hours in this attic, I lose days in this town, the streets get dark so early and I forget there are things to do beside sleep. I speak with outside voices and they carry on, but nothing seems quite so important. Like I'm wrapped in a few bales of cotton, and it's numbing, but also soft, and sometimes it's hard to weigh what you lose against what you gain. The days carry on regardless. I do not write my book. 

 I should be writing my book. 

The thing is I am not so sad, anymore. The thing is, cotton will never be fireworks but some days it is enough not to hurt. 

The thing is I'm still alive, despite - *waves vaguely in the general direction of the year that's been* - and perhaps that's the bar we set for now. I ran a slow, cold jog along a country road today and did not marvel, but I ran it. This heart has been dragged across the pavement enough to build scars as thick as the Arctic ice. 

Which is to say it's solid now. 

But it'll thaw eventually. 

And then what a tsunami it'll be.