The Wrong Way to Get Out of Bed

We may go downhill from here.

I don’t really know where to go, what to say from there. Just that we may. Or that we’re actually most likely to. And that I don’t know if it can be helped, by what or who or an eventual why. Is the why, if it exists, really eventual? Or is it just you and I wishing that there was some other way for this future to take shape. What then is eventual for us? Shall I go back, go back to my first sentence?

All this hurts, don’t get me wrong. But everything now hurts the way it hurts when bruises are made–when a blunt, unintrusive object collides with a part of you, as if forcing the unintrusive to intrude, the closed skin of your body to receive.

There is more confusion than fear, more blunt pain than real sadness. What is there to mourn, if death is made constant in almost every day that we spend together?