I shall know why, when time is over, and I have ceased to wonder why


Shifting like shingles, down a rain-glossed roof despite any recementing, control over my own life is the rubix cube propped on the shelf, unsolvable, and pending. There is always that moment when everything falls apart; I have seen it in so many lives and fear it’s near to my own, as pieces slip away like finger-oiled marbles, rolling rolling
rolling
I’m eating the cookie I swore I wouldn’t touch, I’m skirting disaster I knew I was too knowledgeable to approach, I’m stitching idleness up with derision and a long, scarlet, steel string.

I’m sitting back now, because everything is fine, and I’m human, therefore erratic, and female, therefore sensationally erratic. Pooling the Moulin Rouge of neon light and cancan dancers into a darker corner of my sanity the “I’ll deal with that later” sector has begun its spread, and at some point when my back was turned it began reupholstering my brain with a whole new color scheme. And I liked those curtains.

Today, the world is a bit big for me, a fair reach up, a shoe size too large, and I occupy a thumbprint (not even three dimensional) of this infinite forward. It leaves me typing some pitter-patter print on a page that will pass down the electronic line and fold itself infinitesimally into an archive that even I won’t look at. Thank God for the vanity that saves me from meaninglessness. Thank God.