Men have put men on the moon and yet here I sit not moving at all. Completely motionless the ground pushes upward at me. My skin is poured over my form like molten glass that is not molten anymore. Tiny hairs have taken root all over my body. The most resilient of them pushed their feelers out not long after my ignoble birth, but some have only now shown up, years after that black day. My nails are glaciers inching along the grooves in my fingers and toes. A path is being carved. There is a thick dark line in the nail on my right thumb. It has always been there. It is in dynamic equilibrium and has been ever since it appeared there. I do not remember when it got there. Everything in my life has the same “is-ness” to it, and I find myself every day morning hour moment as if freshly laid upon this earth, and discovering once more what it is that I have gotten myself into. There is no sense of progress or movement, only the way I look back and see everything has changed. Nothing makes sense in the moment, but hindsight has a sickening clarity to it. The motions of my fingers are automatic and smooth. I feel the pull and push of her breathing on my eyelashes. Let me tell you about my eyelashes, they have evolved to be too long.
I am sorry I am, I am what I am, devoid of explanation or proactive ability or any fundamental understanding of life. A vast electrical storm rages in my head, completely out of control.