Spasmodics
There are lights on right now in rooms where loved ones no longer live; there is movement that traces the spectral recesses of past movements. But those halls don’t whistle and moan like they once did; the air is permeated with a distinctly new effervescence.
We pull and we break. Our tidewaters recede in a process that’s forgotten to pair a flow to its ebb. We stop and stare at open doors and unencumbered passageways with incredulous immobility, yet practically impale ourselves on the victorian knockers of the doors that are closed to us–we make ourselves the battering rams, we choose the presence of a foe.
Regardless of clutter, regardless of the vain attempts to occupy every bit of space around me in order to keep something unquantifiable at bay, I found myself mired in it. Things had surrounded me; people had abandoned me; regrets accumulated. The price of these insulating materials had gone up, driven by speculation and pivoting on a recessed market that inspired nothing; frequently undue panic became the harbinger of all the uncontrolled elements that existed around me–the very plasmatic particles that built the air through which I waded.
I foresaw nothing and began to want less, which was the key to surviving this tainted fray, this dishonorable fracas. Who I was didn’t translate well to the dailies, so I concocted a Self that did. I was thorough in my transformation.
