a new year
Too much dust. Too much. Is it me eroding under weight of memory?
It’s the wear and tear of living. Also a good metaphor for memory.
It reads like a body speaking before thought intervenes, time lodged in muscle, breath, and dust. There’s an unsentimental clarity here: worn but awake, drawn to what endures, even when it creaks its way back into motion.
Very visceral. I did imagine the body speaking. Almost like a machine.
Too much dust. Too much. Is it me eroding under weight of memory?
It’s the wear and tear of living. Also a good metaphor for memory.
It reads like a body speaking before thought intervenes, time lodged in muscle, breath, and dust. There’s an unsentimental clarity here: worn but awake, drawn to what endures, even when it creaks its way back into motion.
Very visceral. I did imagine the body speaking. Almost like a machine.