It whips around the soul like a vice-grip. Locked. Unmoving obsession and compassion. Unsure why or when or how, but the questions are irrelevant. Just the tasks at hand remain to be completed and understood. This is simple process. This is repetition. The best kind. The therapeutic kind.
Yet you fight the attention. The obligation. The natural desires. You refuse to understand the needs and the want of others. Just do with it what you want. Just take it from there. These are simple requests and matters turned complicated for the want of no fuss. Turn off the lights again. Shut it out. Close the lid and fix it with glue and cement. Nothing will ever get in again. Bubble wrap the life of it. No more air. No more breathing. No more living at all for fear of no life remaining.
Locking it all away again. The wrong thing to waste it seems. The eyes strain at the shapes like never before. A discordance within the alignment. Nothing is straight edge any more. And don't forget your stuff any more. Don't forget what you need and what you have to do. Don't forget to enjoy it all.
It is harder to pick up the pen and run it across the ripples on the brain. It is harder to lift the feet and push it through the skin again. Always harder when it is most needed. But the product is undeniable. The quality is forever.