Drifting

The confused experience of drifting breeds fantasies and, more than this, modes of being. I lie in bed most of the day. I go on long walks. I don’t wash up. I can’t focus at work. I try to imaginatively repair the damage. I imagine the damage as much worse than it is. The drifting is as much a swirl or words and embodied attitudes as it is a spreading, inchoate thing. It constantly obtains form and then decomposes. There is no actual wound to heal and so nothing heals. There is no sense of an end. An end is undoubtedly coming, but it seems even worse than the state of drifting itself, in that it involves giving up and forgetting. The drifting remains as much because I will it to remain as because it will not go. The drifting is an amputated limb. I am accustomed to its absence. I struggle against the limb’s absence and cannot do without it. Through a window, playing on new leaves, I recognise the heedless light of a hidden sun.