on being elastic

Every morning the body gets up. Or doesn’t.

This is a ranting about paradoxes - you are, but you cannot be. If you are not, why aren’t you being?

The world requires an answer the body is not yet ready to give. It is, after all, morning.

This is something written about self-love. Hello, how are you, I think my brain is alerting me not to love you, why does your face look so much like mine?

There are so many things we are supposed to tell each other. A question of movement, a question of standing still, a question of knowing when to do what, a question of expectations.

Every morning the body does, or doesn’t, get up, and wait.

Sometimes it’s noon and there is no time to shower. Once you were told about how some stains are tougher than others. Once you told me that as a justification for a black coat, or several. No one said anything about mourning. Mourning is, after all, more silence than color.

Every morning the mail comes. Or doesn’t. There is little to do with a body. You learned, as a matter of fact, that there is only one purpose to it, which is fill it with things that make it larger.

Every morning the body gets up, until the morning it stops doing so. No one said anything about mourning. It has nothing to do with color and, more than silence, it has everything to do with weight.

This is a ranting about paradoxes but, above all, a request for an autopsy.

Get them out, get them out.