Trajectoria

I’m used to fighting back a yawn in meetings; today it’s tears and I’m giving low-level dissociation a go. What a plane on which to 

 

be alive!

 

Until I’m nowhere for a beat and wonder if it’s tears or tomorrow. I used to think I had a trajectory; when I learned its meaning, from Latin trans- (across) and jacere- (to throw), I knew I did. Thrown across years, I accidentally realised nothing matters, except I suppose the pressure of love: in joints, behind eyes, atop shoulders, a collective and incremental only. I’ve swallowed a lot of what people are capable of but Ross saying something pre-meeting that suggests he believes dogs can actually smile is the final straw.  Realising nothing matters is terrible. Not realising is worse. I want to break this meeting. I want to break love 

 

up and open.

You See Things in Clouds but This Is a Ceiling

Paint-drips, victims of past gravity as you are of this single bed: pareidolia in your childhood bedroom. In the next room your mum calls out but she’s not calling to you specifically. In lucid moments she says professional carer is an oxymoron. They’ll take over soon. You won’t leave, even as your mum does, to new imperfections, different directions of light in windows. After the funeral you’ll move to a city that feels village small, all those people trying not to but, bound by their patterns, coming closer to certainty and drying out on the way. For now, you listen for when the calls get louder, for when they’re aimed at you.