You worry about the end of days, about the end of your creative solitude, of demands from the outside world, but when you count your pennies in minutes, you see that you have eons of time unaccounted for, minutes and hours in piles for your creative stretches. Yesterday I saw myself in a light that I thought long had been extinguished. There is magic in Words, still. January spreads out less like a villain and more like a promise, less like the monster that hides in every dark corner and more like a moment's reprieve to hear yourself think again.
My physiotherapist gives me a hesitant nods, lets me out onto the pavement with a hundred conditions and stern reprimands, says you can jog, only jog, I take trembling steps like I do not know this ground beneath me, do not remember this air in my lungs, but of course that is a lie.
For every step I take, I feel more familiar. Every breath leads to another, and things begin to make sense along my spine again. I learn new words, new songs, only to find that they are well trodden paths, that these muscles have memories that are not just darkness, not just step-by-step instructions for grinding a life into pulp, beacuse they know, also, how to run into a sunset, how to be weightless in the frozen air. The last few blocks I sprint, I gain speed like i'm trying to fly, I hear her voice saying jog, inly jog, but January is giving me gifts I didn't know I could ask for, how do you expect me not to break myself
to catch them?
No comments:
Post a Comment