Last night in a dream, I was asked to multiply
five hundred and ten by fifteen. Waiting at me with a blank stare, I threw seven thousand six hundred and fifty back at him, intonating
the syllables with a small sneer. His own son could not do multiplication as he stood beside me drooping from the weight of shame
. Feeling him falling beside me, I had to regret passing the answer though my mouth with upturned
outside lulls me with a damp bright green of morning dew, porch stairs stained a shade darker under that same blanket of moisture. Cutting
bruised portions from apples over the edge
of the steps, peeling to cut into a small pan of boiling cherry juice. Knowing without understanding why a warm breakfast
is right, not bothering to probe further.
I want things and I do not want them. A wish placement
of the world sifts through my head, one which I would feel less satisfied when fullfilled than savoring the construct
in my fancy. It seems my reflex
to want, yet treasure what is given in place, growing a sense of deep balance coarsing through things. A tendancy for people to fight from both ends naturally, we would feel defeated if absent a sense of loss. A reliance
on some to commit atrocity
and others to topple, simply slip into the framework to do what you must understanding this. Further
your fight under the strain of no hope, even that is crucial.
The thick and slow thoughts of morning roll in this way, washing over in a slow motion
beyond power to stop, the creeping advance
. Sun still a harsh medium for my eyes, it is time to turn back inside for finding what hours ahead will deliver
is slowly receding from my grasp again.