There's almost no joy anymore. Not no joy, but almost no joy.
And then I can sit for a second and try to bring back the moments of joy. I close my eyes and scan recent memory to see what comes back, casting a signal throughout my time to see what comes back.
A recent sunrise, so magnificent, shades of crimson and purple you cannot see unless you're right there in that moment.
Holding someone on a bed, knowing it wouldn't last, and...
Joy arrested. The feeling is there, but I cannot access it anymore. If I were to try to imagine the feeling, others would follow in the fashion of an oil slick. Perhaps more murky, like an ink of a retreating octopus.
"Don't follow me," says whatever is left of that memory, one that has already blotted out the sunrise. Any thought about recasting the signal dismissed because there's no time for any of that.
What must happen instead is another day on the trail of typing, sifting through so many facts in the hopes of assembling something someone be interested in. Enough people pay me to do this, and that brings a sense of satisfaction if not joy.
From the television screen back to me comes music that makes sense to me as it sounds like it might have come from my brain if I had been allowed to pursue certain pathways. Who stopped me? Was it internal all along?
I keep messing up words and substituting ones that are either homophones or just off what I want. Side for site, see? This is happening more and more and the only recipe is to keep traveling forward searching for a match to the signal I will likely have forgotten about in pursuit of a factoid.
 |
| Be calm unfrozen water |
Comments