Dim

I can see the slither of light at the bottom of the curtain. A seam in the blinds. I sniffle eleven times a minute. Damn these symptoms of something larger. My body takes the brunt of sadness. Each day I have to hold the phone further away. I float in the dark of the universe. I spin, I spin. Most things around me are phony except for my runny nose I suppose. Gathering strength is futile. I give myself over to mistakes, like a car with no brakes. I am unedited and thought I was better these days. A lie.

Fall still loves me and maybe Spring. Doubt has it out for me and my soul. On the hunt for energy to keep me moving. Losing, again. The torch I ran so far with is losing its shine. The backward steps I took have snuffed out the last little light in my cupboard. It’s dim now.

Written just now. Unedited.

Mike Moss, December 2019.

I guess this is journal-prose? I don’t know. Lots on my mind. Can’t sleep. If only I could learn to make great decisions. Anyways.