And maybe it’s approaching summer. The cycle of the disease. The Janet Frame novels. The videos of black men being murdered in the streets. My indigenous Uncle so depressed he can’t laugh, and if you know him, you know that this is apocalyptic.
Maybe it’s the numbness, the little pink pill dependency, the way time moves too quickly. The green of the air. The scent of choking desert. The inevitable.
Bad childhood memories. My brain. My diagnoses. The way the thought of my next birthday being my last one hangs around me like fog. Or the fear that looms outside, just a little bit past the front doorstep.
The pain in my tooth that spreads to my face. My twitching eyelids. Or maybe it’s reality. My mind. The grip I’ll never have on any swinging piece of silk. Or my sins. Maybe it’s just the act of being alive that’s so tiring.
Maybe it’s being awake that’s to blame.