I’m laying in bed. I’ve been laying in bed for five hours. On a weekday, when I am supposed to be at work.
Days like this have become more and more common. Legs like funeral pyre, slowly consumed. Can anyone else smell the burning?
I try to write. Blank spaces break sentences into fragments of thought. I used to know so many words–today, they are hidden in the smoke. I feel their presence behind the gray, but cannot coax them out.
Language is my truest friend. In the last two years, as the scaffolding of my existence has crumbled into ash, words have prevented total collapse.
Now I must ask: et tu, Bruti?
But if I am Caesar in this version of my life, what have I done to invite the knives? What have I done to feed this betrayal?