What Happens Next: A Gallimaufry

melancholic romantic comic cynic. bi & genderqueer. fantasy writer. sysrae on ao3.

Some days, I am heavy.

A lethargic drag that acts on me from the lungs outwards, breathing as though the air is not quite air. Like hands on my shoulders, pushing without gripping at softwrongish, stubborn flesh. Blood in its pulse becomes a desultory epistle to such waking parts as listen: we are alive, we endure, we move. I am doubled and tripled within myself, a plural voice with a single, mismatched outlet. I act against my own chastisement of action. I want to do more. I want. I want.

I can’t seems too simple an answer. There is no other marshal here, no third hand on whatever leash rebukes my small momentums. Only me. And yet. I can’t.

It will be different in sunlight. (Gods and void, let it be different.) I feel so small in my competence here, like waging a rearguard action against a tide onrushing faster and further than I can outpace it, skirmishing against a force no smaller or less alien than our nameless moon. The fight is indefinite, reprieve uncertain: how best to expend my strength? The trick is attrition. The trick, if you can manage it, is an endurance race.

Some days, I am heavy. 

I carry myself.  

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    This.I am too today.
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