Textling #35

For an evening doubt and worry were held at bay. Next morning fatigue had me in its slobbering mouth again, brought forcibly sequestered days – energies dispersed, functions reduced, cognition etherised. A nosedive deep into my own shadow, where ‘I’ is a question, apprehended (and prepared for); no matter: disbelieved. How can such a joyful and affirming time, where nary a limb was moved, exhaust me so? As is their wont: instances of confidence are cut adrift; and later, when I reach to pull them back, my fingers dip in salt.

It is as if fatigue were out to claim your core. Achievements (so rare, so small) and moments of communion sink like pretzels in a puddle. All body now, banned from the realm of verbs and tenses, you wait, till something rises, a line or two, a riddle: Other and oughter. This is where he broughter.

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