A snowstorm drags across the continent, loses speed before it hits the Eastern Seaboard and leaves the city with a blanket sky and chills. I leave work early, pile into an unmade bed and read stories from other lifetimes that look no different from today. Some of us always suffered, could not ignore the weights of the world, even if we painted it ourselves. Maybe we were just trying to create excuses that would let us curl up in unmade beds. He sends pictures of dirty slush in the north country, and you commiserate over these weeks when salvation seems to peek out only to be buried by arctic winds and darkness.
Two weeks until daylight saving begins.
You look at houses for sale in the country.
The point is there are things yet to do, life yet left to live. You only didn't want anything because a cancer had devoured your serotonin molecules, you only didn't want any thing because the mechanism of want lay broken inside your machinery. A top up of oil can do nothing when the engine is disconnected, you know, you know, you know, and yet here we are, 25 years later and dumbfounded. It would be funny if it wasn't so inordinately stupid.
Eventually you tire of wanting to die, and you get back up on that horse which insists on carrying you on, ever on. The choices we have are few. But it's easier to stay in the saddle,
when you remember how to want to.
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