When slice-of-life doesn’t cut it anymore

Eyes closed, on my back, losing touch with my position in space. Voices passing outside the door, in the hall. Someone pushing a cart. Someone running water. Can’t feel my hands, can’t move my feet. Mind is awake. I can see behind my eyes, feel the edges, like moving inside a cave, no light.

I am dying inside in small ways, cells sloughing off, like a tree losing its leaves, changing color, still standing after it’s died.

I’m getting ready to set up my space in the garage and write a story, at last. I’m facing the wall under the stairs, surrounding myself with music and scents, clipping herbs and animal parts, making sparks in the dark for winter time.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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2 Responses to When slice-of-life doesn’t cut it anymore

  1. It sounds like the way I feel when I read too many blogs. I must, must read a BOOK. It feels good to dig in and lose yourself. Best wishes and please, for all of our sakes, as well as your own, do it! I look forward to reading what happens when you declare yourself “writer” and stake out physical space for it.

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