Tiredness is an arse.
An inconsiderate underminer, riddling calm.
An inconsiderate underminer, riddling calm.
Over and over, grace rises from stress, is interrupted.
Focus slips to the floor, broken; mindfulness is kicked crossly into a metaphorical bin. It is not even a good shot. It rolls in shame, crumpled, to a halt.
Oh gosh, we say, or something like that.
And then wonder, what is all this work for?
And what is to show for it?
Did we need something- a house, perhaps? Being warm?
No one remembers, only feels that it is unfair.
But none of that was the point. It was finding the eternal in the moment: the spark, the genius, the serendipity!
How did we forget?
The jaw dropping splendour of the whole universe?
Somehow, we forgot.
Tiredness is a repetitive arse.
It is not the only thing that tangles us: there are many recurrent debilities.
They tangle our steps, like dirty shirts dumped on the floor.
Same old shirts and quirks of fear.
Never mind. Fill up the wash basket. Run yourself a bath.
Be happy when there is enough hot water to lie in the bath, closed in steam.
Leave the shirts stuffed in a machine - think of them, rabidly foaming.
Be happy when there is enough time to lie in the hot bath, to listen to the washing machine: that is one fantastic machine!
And if you should find a corner of ice cream lost in a tub, and there is time, and hot water, and you can eat ice cream in a hot bath with bubbles in your hair?
Then it is magic, nothing less.
Look, Tired, you could say: you are an arse. But it is me that forgot.
And then you will be filled with certainty: how the bits of life that go wrong are perfect: how there’s another universe where life turns out exactly as planned. It’s terrible. There’s no resilience there. Imagination lacks muscle: no buff, no shine.
Buttons click-click in the spinning machine.
Focus slips to the floor, broken; mindfulness is kicked crossly into a metaphorical bin. It is not even a good shot. It rolls in shame, crumpled, to a halt.
Oh gosh, we say, or something like that.
And then wonder, what is all this work for?
And what is to show for it?
Did we need something- a house, perhaps? Being warm?
No one remembers, only feels that it is unfair.
But none of that was the point. It was finding the eternal in the moment: the spark, the genius, the serendipity!
How did we forget?
The jaw dropping splendour of the whole universe?
Somehow, we forgot.
Tiredness is a repetitive arse.
It is not the only thing that tangles us: there are many recurrent debilities.
They tangle our steps, like dirty shirts dumped on the floor.
Same old shirts and quirks of fear.
Never mind. Fill up the wash basket. Run yourself a bath.
Be happy when there is enough hot water to lie in the bath, closed in steam.
Leave the shirts stuffed in a machine - think of them, rabidly foaming.
Be happy when there is enough time to lie in the hot bath, to listen to the washing machine: that is one fantastic machine!
And if you should find a corner of ice cream lost in a tub, and there is time, and hot water, and you can eat ice cream in a hot bath with bubbles in your hair?
Then it is magic, nothing less.
Look, Tired, you could say: you are an arse. But it is me that forgot.
And then you will be filled with certainty: how the bits of life that go wrong are perfect: how there’s another universe where life turns out exactly as planned. It’s terrible. There’s no resilience there. Imagination lacks muscle: no buff, no shine.
Buttons click-click in the spinning machine.
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