Last night in a dream, I was asked to
multiply five hundred and ten by fifteen. Waiting at me with a blank stare, I threw seven thousand six hundred and fifty back at him,
intonating the syllables with a small sneer. His own son could not do multiplication as he stood beside me drooping from the weight of
shame. Feeling him falling beside me, I had to regret passing the answer though my mouth with
upturned corners.
The
grass outside lulls me with a damp bright green of morning dew, porch stairs stained a shade darker under that same blanket of moisture.
Cutting bruised portions from apples over the
edge of the steps, peeling to cut into a small pan of boiling cherry juice. Knowing without understanding why a
warm breakfast is right, not bothering to probe further.
I want things and I do not want them. A wish
placement of the world sifts through my head, one which I would feel less satisfied when fullfilled than savoring the
construct in my fancy. It seems my
reflex to want, yet treasure what is given in place, growing a sense of deep balance coarsing through things. A tendancy for people to fight from both ends naturally, we would feel defeated if absent a sense of loss. A
reliance on some to commit
atrocity and others to topple, simply slip into the framework to do what you must understanding this.
Further your fight under the strain of no hope, even that is crucial.
The thick and slow thoughts of morning roll in this way, washing over in a slow
motion beyond power to stop, the creeping
advance. Sun still a harsh medium for my eyes, it is time to turn back inside for finding what hours ahead will
deliver.
Clarity is slowly receding from my grasp again.