an inaccurate expression of what it is like

Woke up at five and spent almost every waking moment taking things in. Like a sponge, or more like a filter, like flesh takes in the sun, until it starts to burn, until it is too much. It is all inside me now, some sort of amalgamation of what I’ve been reading: poetry, other people trying to make sense of poetry, people trying to make sense of databases, news, legislation, and hearing: other people’s opinions on movies I saw, books I read, books I should read, stories of robberies, shootings, and seeing: pictures of babies, of scallops with a hundred eyes, rotunda-ed buildings, sun dogs, the patterns on a butterfly wing, things that have puzzled me: a bathroom in a stairwell–pink inside, what to call a silence on the page, what it means to know something in your body before you know it in your mind, what another dollar per hour means I’m worth, things that comfort me: that everything is just where I left it, that even tired today I recognize myself in the mirror, the smell of my dog on the shirt I left for him on this, his long day alone, the shirt that smelled of me, and that now I’m wearing again reeking of him like a penance for being a person with a job and a class and a car that takes me places he is not, which I guess means I’m ending on things I feel, that come from inside me, but have to get reabsorbed as well: guilt, love, nostalgia, frustration, tired, lazy, empty, full.

I can’t process it all. I’m not sure where to start. Like I’m swimming the best stroke, FORWARD, with no time to look around. It’s going in though. It is all still going in. There are notes on slips of paper in my bag, on my desk, on my other desk. I keep telling myself I’ll pull it all together, get organized. But rarely am I able to. It’s scraps, snapshots, things misremembered. It’s fuel.


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