Bruises and Aches

These days I work in quiet circles, trying to remember the quiet things I've pretended to know before. I don't have all that many secrets, but it feels like I do. Other things I feel: unnamed wants and a belly full of gravel; this tumble I took the other night by moonlit run; a factory of sore joints for locomotion.

In the work I care least about I fall further behind - and fail to feel guilt, reasoning it away as the paychecks keep not coming. That, I'm told, is administrative error, but I know more - know that fuck-ups have their own gravity, a way of finding their way to a sea of zeroes. Maybe it's cosmic retribution, the scale readjusted for errors I try best not to remember, but still. Seems in this case the zeroes are my bank account.

I try not to think about the questions I know I can't answer, on account of this tightness in my chest. Alcohol helps, as does fatigue. Still, I can't shake the suspicion that the things I need to know most are precisely those I know least, there not being enough space in my head beside the pretenses I'm struggling to keep. Failing at adult life is what this is, really.

These shortcomings taste like their own binary, truthfully, black and white - the date's all yes's and I'm all no's. And unlike the breakdowns I prefer, I don't see much beauty here. Only bruises and aches.