The unbearable being of being-ness
Somedays you wake up and your head lifts from the pillow like a brick tied to a noose. A heavy lead ball, disaffected and disjointed, you cradle one hand against the disappointment of your face, and pull those heavy limbs away from the floor. Upwards you shoot, taking one step in front of the other, steady slow fumbling through the wreckage of the floor. Cushions and blankets and duvets all scattered round.
It's hard to not feel abject frustration with the world. So little seems ever to change. And yet there is faith and hope and joy in some, there are little sparks of magma-hot flame, waiting to ignite a touchpaper, kindle a fevered strand of hope.
You trundle slowly to the bathroom, in the half-light. You feel the navy-darkness pressing against your skin as you hand skitters for the pull. A 'click', the lights flick on, the whirr of the fan wrestles into your consciousness, you can catch a sight of yourself in the mirror. Another aged day, another grey hair, another fine winkle, the continuing march of entropy.