everyone feels the same

i was obliterated
all day
the day before,
the day before,
and then lay flat
for seven hours.
eight hours.
nine hours.
on soft ground.

once upright
i shuffled a few steps,
stood again upright,
took a few steps,
sat down.
a bit of sitting
and then sliding
back closer to flat.
adjust back to sitting.
and then back to standing.
a few steps here,
a few back over there.

tired of my body
in its confines,
i move it outside.
walk it a mile.
two miles.
take it to
another place.
in the other place
i sit the body.
stand it.
and bend it.
i do not place it
flat upon the floor.
do not flatten it
to anything.

it is dim,
i’ve not switched on
the lights.
it is quiet,
i’ve turned off
the music.
the clock ticks audibly.
cars go by outside,
through a large window,
a window’d door.

it’s still in here.

the body fidgets
the wooden seat
is hard
against the soft of
the body.
the clock is quiet
against the mutter
of cars.

to be alive
is to hear,
a hum.

it feels good
to sit here.
feels good
to not feel
so much
at all.

a man wearing a blue pullover and a blue hat sits behind a counter, jars of dried herbs behind him. he looks off to the side.

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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