sanding down

We never stop falling to pieces, do we? We never come to a complete rest, a stasis, we continue to dissolve in the rain and the daylight. You might be a block of solid marble, veins of green and gold jagging throughout, and the corners rub off, the blocks crumble away bit by bit to reveal a stunning bust, a hymn to terpsichore, a liquid moment captured and saved in rock–beautiful, permanent, whole now that it's halved, and if the weather beats down further, all it will do is polish and refine, make dainty the already tight patterns. Or you might crumble like a river bank. Time sweeps higher every year, swells, froths and tears support from roots, sand from grasses, eating away at shelves and leaving behind the fingers of mud and bare roots exposed to the horizon. I am a muddy bank that has always been muddy. Nothing gains in grace.

I am still living. I have been feeling profusely these past few weeks, good and bad, and last night I psyche-vomited out all the feelings I had left, which left me just roots, husky and pink and incoherent and unable to make any sort of decision about going along/staying home/needing S/needing to be alone. I've done a lot of lying flat on my back on the floor.

I suspect this might sound like a bad thing. I suspect it's actually not.