I find my head turning, giving notice to something:
the phone on the table. the front door closed and my boots near it. I am on my knees, palms pressed into the floor to stop myself. the howlite is next to me. a deep longing to be still. I am facing the door. it is not even three seconds of this belabored quiet before I am up; before I am grabbing my headphones and
I am interrupting myself. clutching the straw and the keys and the knob. knees crack. my wrists are turned inward slightly. they are always like that: unnaturally curved so it’s hard to write things down. my handwriting has become an indecipherable slant of lines and wavy figures. sometimes it’s hard to pick things up or open things or just be here now. the constant ache. the T-rex bend to the elbows so I can fiddle as I pace. the way I like to do it: an internal palavering clouding me as I lope forward. I dropped the howlite for this. pick up the straw. head to the door. habits are insidious. they are the leftover thing to shake. made from ephemeral need becoming the most used devices even though need is fleeting. you could wait a second or only have one sip of water to sate a tongue.
one glass for a whole throat. a couple more glasses more when it’s actual dehydration which judging from the depersonalized reference to yourself, is constant and haunting. this is the distant oasis you’re gaining.this is the gauntlet. these tics; they just sit through anything and become fed. fat. the word habitual means regular or usual. I am flinging the front door open in hat and coat and headphones because the come up is hard but you have about ten minutes of a mostly innocuous adjustment before it gets harder. before the drug hits. I took mushrooms for this. for what?
habits are familiar. they are the leftover thing to shake.