For days, you do not surface. Wade through mires of thousand-piece puzzles and hot chocolate, string lights turning on and off, bits of leftovers making their way from fridge shelves to countertops to crumbs on already muddled sweaters. The sun rises and sets, the temperatures plummet and climb back up again. My car freezes to a puddle that melts before I have to move it. At the back of my neck, little tendrils of thoughts begin to turn themsleves into words. On my river walk, they turn to tears, and I have no need to stop them. Let them work their way out, let them purge themselves from under my skin and create assertion instead. I begin looking at apartment listings.
Something gets lost in poverty, in the constant ache of fear in your heart. The mind's ability to conjure joy becomes worn, dulled, it is not like it once was. She writes from behind metal bars and says the electricity they send through her synapses should make everything better, but when she comes out, the peaks and valleys are erased alike. You put on another movie, start another puzzle, hope that the joy will be pumped into your veins for you. It feels like the end of days, but perhaps humans always felt this way. Maslow's hierarchy of needs only reaches so far; eventually we will have actualized ourselves into oblivion.
I write a to-do list for the new year. Everything seems possible when it lies ahead.
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