On Thursday

It’s the feeling of forgetting to blink, of staring at nothing in ignorant unproductivity, then starting and sighing and returning to work.

It’s the feeling of swallowing carefully, and carefully again as a week of speaking loudly settles in the throat.

It’s the half slump of fatigue mixed with resignation to the task.

It’s looking ahead to the next thing that needs to be done, and finding instead a blank and empty space, stretching across a few days with curious whiteness.

It’s the edges of your numb consciousness beginning to twitch with life.

It’s the first deep breath that isn’t followed by a sigh.

It’s the surprising, foreign feeling of wearing jeans, more fitted, more stiff, more durable.

It’s stretching, yawning, unfolding, unsagging, unnumbing, unwinding, un-growing up.


It’s Friday.