There was a moment, today, when I stood in a concrete room with steel walls. I sorted, packed, and placed into piles for two hours. I told my friend I was numb, but I think maybe there's a chance that I could have been perceived as strong, or at the very least methodical in my actions.
There were arrows on the ground outside, short bursts of fresh paint leading quads. No shrubs or trees. Rocks and bright white vapors streaking across the sky.
There were bad ideas. I could leave this door open--unlocked--and feel my cheeks warm and flushed the quicker I let my body move away from this. It had to be better then the wet streaming, due for over a year. Maybe I could look at it section by section. Maybe I could concentrate on the perfect roundness of pixels, not the picture they made up.
I pulled a chair out of the unit, placing it on the broken up paint lines, and sat down.
The worst is over. I had that Brendan Fowler lyric going through my head, his urgent voice saying, "You're texting me, like I think I want to die..." and I don't really know what that's all about, like that statement is too bloated, but maybe I get that voice.
Maybe that's where I'm going, making me stronger and more electric.