Atrophy. Pins and needles as the enveloping fog slowly disperses. A long-standing standard of measurement finds no bite, hanging without regard to physics in the voids of consumption, a mind not unlike swiss cheese. It is early in the day and midway through life and way too late for change. Decisions have piled up like rubble behind and the dust raised congeals in the lungs in wads. So forward, forward.
There is that pinpoint of bright I’ve clamored towards, unknown promise pricking my pupil and pulsating like the light from long ago, a possibly dead star but my only reference for steerage in an arid, empty realm. So toward, toward.
I linger, touch my lips to walls where a spring of caustic liquid trickles. It burns but is wet, and I promise my life to it, and to the next spring and the next. Stations and stanchions, fueling but dwelling but filling but loitering, places which aren’t the end [but] (and) (un)necessary on this journey. And I say to myself, they are on the road, just off the road, and sow the road, the road, at minutest increment.
And so the road in its vague delineation guides me, convex, though it lays to trouble me off its path; I know the narrow apex is the straightest way, convex but it conveys me, vexes me but stays me, and otherwise I’m skidding scree or roughly tumbling to another complex way station and its fractured aftermath. At which point: Atrophy.