Jamila

Friends. Money. Security. Shelter. Always on the brink of the darkness expanding forward. All of the things that must be done in the day and never getting around to doing what is most meaningful. A boat adrift at sea. The beauty of sunshine caught in the hands of tree branches, warmth splattered across the face in broken pieces. Endless distractions, murals of solitude in aching and longing. I linger over these ideas as I lay in bed, smoke cigarettes to let go of the world only to be swallowed up again by the complexities, the twists and turns of the luck in all of it. I can nearly escape in my orgasms- in the gasping of air, the expulsion of sweat, the contortions of muscle. In the random chaotic vastness, I am determined to make a place for myself. To feel at home without a place to hide, to feel welcome in whatever devil-may-care I can find. Is this just symptomatic of human-ness? In the ability to measure our lives in time across dimensions of infinite space? How goes it then, the meaning of the day at the end of breath, at the last flutter of electricity in cerebral synapses? And even in knowing that what one makes is what one eats, there is always so much work to be done and intentions alone never seem to be any use. Time is at once stone, and yet elastically pliable. Remember what you want to remember, it is already as it really was.