It's what we talk about when we talk about masks. It's a lack of practice, equal parts anxiety and apathy. It's the weight of unmet expectations and a week of stressors, straining the complexion of this ceramic facade. It's ninety twenty-milligram tablets of chalky white hail mary's that go for just short of two hundred and seventy five dollars. It's the (perceived) numeric value of that whole sentence. It's the conversation the next day that revolves around the words benefits and halved coverage. It's the growing grinding that continues to emit from my brake system. It's the imagined implications of a self-imposed pseudo state of solitude.The taunting absence of touch and tactile comfort, hallmark or not. It's the eight or nine or ten days of flying solo, of being without my imaginary (or not) bitter saviors. This is my body, take and sallow, and become whole.
A jigsaw puzzle with frayed pieces. (The puzzles at KinderCare are worn and weathered and always seem to be missing a piece. Just one, solitary segment. That would, that does make the difference.) It's a portrait of a man in a room. Simply sitting in the dark, listening to hushed pleas of communing spirits, pretending to ignore another missed call. Another missed moment.
It is not indifference or ignorance or illness (perceived or not). It's what we talk about when we talk about cracks in the veneer of my steady flow of verbiage. It's a long-winded commentary, an apology asking for time and a misplaced hope of change. It's this, try again and keep trying, and I'll try too. It's the knowledge that none of us (here's my hope) know what the hell we're doing, but that your wrinkles become mine. It's the whisper that what is can and will get better, that jobs and journeys come quickly and smoothly. It's the smallest haze my smoke signals can yet produce, and the embers remain.
So this, can I try again tomorrow?
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