Tuesday, September 17

Teach This Fool to Rest

I QUIT USING SUDOCREAM, despite my brother’s bird instructing me otherwise, because it used to collect in the scars of my acne and accentuate them even more. Appearing before the mirror I was driven to spend time rubbing them out, pushing the freckles of white elsewhere, much to their discomfort and unwillingness.
After my shower I open the bathroom window, appreciate the dawn, see the grey, put my damp arm out and feel the cold; it is brisk; the rooftops and the bushes in the gardens are grey and their greens do little to shine through when, for months, they were the most beautiful and subtle of soundtracks to a summer that, for once, was mildly magnificent.
What do I care that the harvests have been harvested? That the winds have picked up, pushing me down the street to get my morning coffee? Rosiness is back flushing in women’s cheeks and scarves are somewhat prematurely strangled around the necks of men.
The ladder stood outside my room is old. The previous owner of the house used it and left it here (seventies, maybe) for me my dad my brothers to clamber upon into the loft for christmas decorations or suitcases. It is speckled with paint of various colours; the edges of each step sanded down by passing balls. The things we can’t undo.
Yesterday I started to pack away my books and I was struck by the realisation that I was moving out. (Ten years gone.) My bookshelves are empty save for a few I intend to read this week. This is movement, I suppose, and I will write anything I please if I feel it distracts me sufficiently.

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