winter
froydir
tales in black & white
idk it’s difficult to take shape in the void. you become formless. there is nothing to help define the edges of you or show what reactions might arise from your actions. you are everything & nothing at all
i wake up & all i can do today is light a candle make tea & sit on the couch clutching a pillow feeling thankful for how soft it is
conjoined by light conjoined by absence some darkness placed in a sideways glance birds writing flight onto the sky things (currently) out of order: skype sleep eating anything other than bananas & rice working art ‌
i mean – i am still learning 2 do things for myself, not for others so i have 2 be careful abt that & keep practising but
the thought of not talking to you again is the grey light on a day when rain is suspended in the air a cool sadness that opens its soft-lit space what opportunities lie here? to walk in silence & the easy chill as on a day where you walk in the cemetery & recall one who has died but not right now raw sorrow’s raging is over & in its place is this day grey, coolly damp & drawn out it stretches towards the horizon & towards the end of time
i wake up & words are ash on my skin. what can i say that is not fire. what can i say that does not burn. it has been raining non-stop for five days in a row & the ashen murk called light is glinting off the bay. do you read me
bad writing poor writing horrific stupid meaningless writing better left alone writing waste of time writing why even writing pained writing bored writing silent internal scream writing crazy exploding sky writing break open the world writing burn it all down writing the blood of my enemies writing
page littered in corpses writing dead words writing broken bones writing scraped knees writing bad seeds writing it all needs writing writing writing
the sky fulminates in dirty greys all around the horizon streetlights turning green
waiting on the stairs for our one o'clock date door locked & no one answering my call outside: outside: outside:
cathedral bells cold wind people walking
it is saturday
life sticks to me a thick colourless hide that won’t peel off without taking me apart. you turn on the lamps & i keep turning them off. wrap myself in grey light. don’t think i’m not missing the sun. every day i go through the ritual. swallow a small pill full of everything the sun would have told me if it was here
the bus slows as it passes our house. there is a cat in the road grey like every day of this week. of this month. the sagging dust covered web that drapes itself across the night of my room. a small pyramid of clothes is accreting on the chair & surrounding floor. a forest of water glasses in varying stages of full or empty stand & this moment is slowly aging towards dawn hour minute minute hour the earth hides the sun or else water.
i have leftover food except it’s not. everything is dust apparently everything is the dust of long dead stars & the dust is ingesting & processing more dust & the dust is alight everything burning like those stars & i no longer wonder why you seem so distant & so cold
drawing: with this line i move with this line i pull a small measure of time from the twine of me with this line i brush my presence against the world with this line i touch with this line i reach inside you with this line i make love with this line i free myself with this line i shed
thank you for reading Š froydir 2016