ever closer to forty, the fury of forty, the resignation, the sputtering out, the desire to revisit, revamp, re-do, undo. impossible, all of it.
and this, voice, this disembodied embodiment of disappointment, of judgement: once youthful and wise, now smoke laden, tired and sore. done with itself even while speaking. out of the dark, something returns to nothing.
and yet, yet: doomsday scenarios that would tear the heart asunder; daydream vistas of compassion and love and the beauty of immortal children; fearful transgression into the very depth of a death only a smattering of decades away.
how do you do it?