Wednesday, December 3, 2014
I lay flat on a slab of ice, anti inflammatories stewing feebly through my body. All movement is a gift. Did you know movement was a gift? Yeah, I would have said something like that too, pretending I know. I will pretend again soon, but now I do know movement is a gift, at least until my ever-taking-it-for-granted-brain rises again. I don't begrudge it. I hear that's how brains are supposed to be. If they didn't take as much as they could for granted we'd all burst at a young age, leaving behind only the blaze marks of desperate poetry. Maybe that's what happens as it is, we just don't recognize it as such while our brains feverishly try to hammer the wild jagged world into something smooth and roundish.
Yeah, good luck with that brain.
And my blog lays flat on its back too, on ice, as I tease it along from a small gaming device that sort of lets me type by thumbs. My blog itself is bedridden, here again today on a kind of drip feed.
Of all things I miss double spacing and bending the most.
So this then is my twitter post, my faithfully sworn 20 foot jog with a broken ankle, my writing without a net. Let us stare at the ceiling and wait to dream again.