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I broke a bowl today. Miles and aeons of time between the fall and the breaking. So much time that's why my brain gets stuck on, frog walking across the kitchen floor all the way to the bedroom with a roll of packing tape in my hands, sticking bits of ceramic, picking the big shards up carefully between finger and thumb. M hands me the paper bag wrapped in plastic, there's pasta cooking on the stove, there's half an hour between now and when he has to go back upstairs to the meeting.
It's weird to fixate on things, weird to come back to this habit I thought I had long discarded. Find myself wading in the shallows and looking at things very carefully. And not just looking- writing things down. It's easy to keep conceding ground, saying: I am having some trouble. At first I think it's I have some trouble feeling, which is only partially true. It's more like a dog chasing it's tail. I feel, I deny myself the feeling, I feel, I deny myself the feeling. Even the most honest person, me holding a knife up to my own throat, do it or so help me god, sometimes when you're your own enemy for so long it's hard to put down the knife. I let the wolf in, I let her wear my skin, I wash my hands twice, three times, different sinks each time.
Thank god the bowl wasn't glass at least. The ceramic shards glint dully every time the light passes over them, easy to spot. Easy to pick up. It's a bowl from the college days. I don't remember ever breaking a bowl in my life, at least not by accident. I go to get my packet of tea and drop it, spilling the whole thing on the ground, but it's easy clean up. I just shove all the individual packets that spilled out back into the big box. Everything is like that, like little inconveniences that don't quite take effort to correct but somehow leaves a weird little shadow in the mind.
I am thinking a lot, but it all makes sense, spooling out thread by thread, slow and calm instead of feverish. I feel more like a dog on a treadmill instead of a dog chasing it's tail- not quite believing I'm getting anywhere, but no longer looking only at myself with that fixated, brutish quality.
It's weird to fixate on things, weird to come back to this habit I thought I had long discarded. Find myself wading in the shallows and looking at things very carefully. And not just looking- writing things down. It's easy to keep conceding ground, saying: I am having some trouble. At first I think it's I have some trouble feeling, which is only partially true. It's more like a dog chasing it's tail. I feel, I deny myself the feeling, I feel, I deny myself the feeling. Even the most honest person, me holding a knife up to my own throat, do it or so help me god, sometimes when you're your own enemy for so long it's hard to put down the knife. I let the wolf in, I let her wear my skin, I wash my hands twice, three times, different sinks each time.
Thank god the bowl wasn't glass at least. The ceramic shards glint dully every time the light passes over them, easy to spot. Easy to pick up. It's a bowl from the college days. I don't remember ever breaking a bowl in my life, at least not by accident. I go to get my packet of tea and drop it, spilling the whole thing on the ground, but it's easy clean up. I just shove all the individual packets that spilled out back into the big box. Everything is like that, like little inconveniences that don't quite take effort to correct but somehow leaves a weird little shadow in the mind.
I am thinking a lot, but it all makes sense, spooling out thread by thread, slow and calm instead of feverish. I feel more like a dog on a treadmill instead of a dog chasing it's tail- not quite believing I'm getting anywhere, but no longer looking only at myself with that fixated, brutish quality.
