On the windowsill

some pieces arrive dead, others thrash, others still slink along. the god, gods, goddesses, kings and queen, there is not as much in my head now except to write rather than scroll on instagram, to write rather than clean the living room, write instead of wash my work shirts. I go back and forth on if we are able to change or only fluctuate from each of our own centers. this is at a dance in comfortable shoes, this is comfortably lost in the woods close to home.

usually the notebook does not leave the desk. then it does, makes it to the couch or on the rare occasion with me to bed then I come to the desk expecting it here and dislodges me to think of where it is. I have a need to be verbally recognized for my deeds. I love the tulip MJ put in the shot glass of water to left of my screen.

each attempt lasts longer. every task that requires focus and endurance. do I write in fragments because I live in fragments? or because I am always distracted in a fragmented world. sometimes afraid of what I have and have not remembered. what choice is there as if it were a pantry stuffed with specific pieces of the past that could be drawn from.