My life has stalled into an strange art: framed, entombed, useless. I am complaining about none of these–how could I?–but it nonetheless presents a struggle.
A struggle, or the opposite of one.
I feel a little like some spiraling bird; instead of falling I am looping in ever increasing circles upwards, and upwards, and with every iteration the world–my world–grows further away. It’s more perfect this way, from a distance, with everything resolving into doll-like miniature detail, but I have learned not to trust perfection.
Yet tomorrow I am leaving, flying away again, and again heading west. That west will always eventually resolve to east I do not know whether to give thanks for, or to resent.