It's been fifty days of strung together words: the heavy necklace of consistency, obligation, desire, necessity, and the pendant of having-done heavy on skin with the salt of repetition clinging to both, rising and falling as the lungs pull in.
Pausing is a gasp in the darkness, a night fever burnt bright with the attention, and for a moment, I bolt up and sit, hands at my sides, heart striding to pace against the corners of my chest, and I turn, this way and that, looking at this space, finding only familiar corners, seeing the shapes of things that form the shadowed edges of experience, and I exhale: these are the things I know and have done, these are the smallest of places I have seen and felt, these are the moments I have saved into the pockets of my mind to bring back and lay out in the light. I know these things for what they are. Here is twilight, here is dawn, here is safe.
The moment passes, the heart settles back to the rhythm of certainty, and I settle back as well, staring into the unseen ceiling before I find myself, again again again, drifting back to the places of rest, to that sense of renewal, to that tiny death that is dreaming.