you’ll make coffee at 3 a.m., take a seat,
and begin to type. you don’t know it then, something creeps out, something dark,
something you can’t share. you see a gnat. you try to swat it. it’s making a mockery
of you. you return to the kitchen, boil six eggs, cool them down, and peel them
too roughly: half eggs, salt and pepper, a slight attitude. it’s 4:30 a.m., a
second cup of coffee, an alarm rings. you open a canister of creamer, spill
some, wipe it up, and pour too much—the coffee is more cream than coffee, you
grab a bigger mug. you return to typing. you slip into a trance, sentences are
forming, revelation is unveiling. you pull away, reflecting on images, tugged
by exciting nonchalance—moving in stillness, heightened inside, sudden silence,
as it appears, it’s so loud, the room is cold.
you have murkiness—most understand, you
have a darker illustration to share. you sit on the table, mug in hand, it seems
the gnat has followed. you move away slowly, feeling in-between, states beyond
description: some place unfair, uneasy, seeming familiar.
you turn on the faucet, the water is
chilly, you arch over, and scrub your face: new life, a cooling breeze, the birds
are chirping, light is forming, rain is falling. you brush your teeth. you look
around, motion is slow, motion is watching.
