I must have dreamed this awful moment into existence, worried too much
over the day-to-day, busied myself wondering what life might be like
in the absence of so much time lost to movement through the necessary repetition
of work in the world. When I found myself home I listened greedily to silence,
breathed it in, embraced an insatiable appetite for solitude and stillness.
And now it has come to this: A voice muddled by hesitation, by the sad, breathy
resistance of a memory that won’t quite gather words. A hand fraught with the hard
weight of its own weakness, refusing movement insisting toward belly. Legs in useless,
spastic motion, forever resisting the weight if a body intent on silencing itself, on bringing
me up short. These days, the air about me is wet with sad, sad solitude and stillness.