sludge

I'm letting this anger melt back down into its less toxic, more fluid form. Just sadness. Not that sadness doesn't hurt. It feels like emptiness, it goes by names like insomnia and lethargy and drunkenness and it tastes too warm in my mouth and sometimes it resembles loneliness a little too closely. But at least I know these pangs will pass, unlike the very real illnesses brought on by anger and fear—high blood pressure, chest pains—things with very solid names and backaches too. So I'm listening to the old standbys and some nearly forgotten but comforting voices in the meantime. I'm balancing chores like laundry and dishes with staring at the tv or nothing at all. I'm letting myself jump frantically between reason and remembering, between daydreams and plans, because my mind will go where it wants to go and I can't stop that, not with all the rage in the world. I'm trying to look out at the horizon with empty hands, fists unclenched. I'm trying to feel the earth with my feet hoping it will guide me without stumbling, and if I stumble, I will stumble. But this dusting of snow is pretty, after all, and I have people who love me to look forward to in the morning, things I love to do, new shoes and clean sheets.