we are crying on the phone about the genocides. our hearts break together. it is a quiet Saturday and the air is stale with bombs i’ll likely never hear. my life is currently too big for my body. i can feel the disability of burnout weighing in—decayed by the sugar of a cheap gas station cappuccino that hours later turns into mostly closed eyes and nearly lifeless fingers tracing the keyboard splayed in front of me on an office table. gripping at negative spoons consciousness, i drool into my KN95 with October’s violent stretch.
new beginnings are not as romantic as their allure. instead, these portal doorways reek of building engines from scratch—oil, gunk, and tar hinge open, but stick to my shoes. i have never been this tired before—exhausted in a way where my bed becomes the raft floating between wave and wallow with brief awareness that there is nowhere to go and nothing to do.
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