Fleeting

I suffocate around myself
As I sleep, as I sit
As I walk
		«Breathing in through the nose
		Out through the mouth»
Bootstraps are pulled and I’m out
Old rivers, echoes of wilderness
Desolate and well-charted by now
Help my spirit
Somewhat
Sometimes
Help what remains
Nevertheless, surrounded by saplings and shrubs
Phone calls still make me waltz around deeper queries

«What’s new, boo?»
He asks.

		Death all around, but except that
		Not much, not much at all.
		You?

I glance downwards, hunting small grey lies
The asphalt looks back at me

« I read again
		I average thirteen hours a day on my iPad
So I’ve got that going on for me
My grandpa died, my great-grandma too
Unrelated reasons, really…
		Oh and also
		Freedom is an illusion and I feel like a ghost,
		What can I say?
Same old, same old.»

All the while, branches and twigs cut my skin without hurt
Whereas needles of steel poke and prick it by my own volition at night
Sometimes
My own plentiful illnesses subverting the one all around
My house becoming my body
Becoming my brain
		Unbecoming
						Home.

My heavy burgundy door vibrates as it locks again
Gently
		Quietly.

Written in response to this painting by the most talented Geneviève Dupont-D.