Then news arrived

its sheer implausibility chased me across the forest like some hateful spirit. without a sense of 'where to' till my legs gave way. wilderness beyond which nothing. anesthetized by the countless spears of the tiny grass soldiers under my person, i fell. quiet. i prayed desperately for loss of sensation. i am made to subside. Nothing to do, then, but. bide. my. time. closed eyelids did nothing to help. dragging me--by the hair-- back to that nauseating

the chaos within.

i see the big silver sun, is n't. like drops. collected in leaves, like orbs of wet dew, merely warmed by the sun; and not sun herself. she is a million glimmering mirrors instead. web of leaflets overhead. grateful. deeper into the grass, begging for numbness. an insignificant lapse of time. my skull was tightening. the insides of my face an oven. blink. 

The image persists long after. The sun was a million glimmering mirrors instead. Komorebi, the  hardly-accurately-translatable Japanese phrase comes to mind even as the very glimmering orbs of dew swell then well in my eyes. When I let my eyelids fall some break ranks and charge toward the countless spears of the tiny grass soldiers under my person. Pain that tastes like salt is the worst one of them all.

Finding our feet

These long and awful days at the plant are protracting still.

9 pm and I am just about done for the day.

Me, my mild OCD and my wife - we live without complaints in our 900 square foot flat that smells of incense

and earthy, vegetarian fare on most days.

Neat, tidy.

"I'm home."

A tall glass of orange-y Tang.

A few moments of unfamiliar silence while you nervously flit from room to room.

You gesture me to follow while I relive a strange anecdote starring my boss.

You are discreet as you arrange strewn-about things the particular way I wish them to be - distracting me with animated facial expressions for every twist in the tale I'm telling you.

I'm careful not to let my eyes follow your hands and what it is they are doing.

You're encouraged; you know your diversions are working.

You smooth out the sheets and fold our blanket when it's your turn to engage me in a wide-eyed narration of the day's events.

The items of clothing that hang suicidally from your shoulder tell me you've just picked 'em up off the floor and other places. Into the machine they go - out of sight and mind.

You're relieved when you look at me - you're beaming.

How well you know me, darling.

Yes, absolutely nothing is out of place to tick me off today.

Not a thing to point out to you... yet I notice...

The blades of every ceiling fan in the house,

presently spinning to a halt, in concert,

even as I nod away, at your exploits in the supermarket.

Empty bottles stashed by the water purifier.

All emptied out, then left unattended

till mere moments ago.

Flyaway paper bits, scribbled notes, print-outs

- your academic pursuits -

peeking from underneath today's daily.

Two turkey towels shoved hastily,

still damp from your late shower,

into the guest room cupboard.

How well I know you, my beloved.

You are disarray, come alive.

You are chaos, in the flesh.

Yet you are the yin to my yang and you're making me better.

And how I thank you, for trying so sincerely.

So tirelessly.

I'll fill these eight empty bottles and continue talking... dissolve that guilt on your face with more accounts of my coworkers... dissolve some of my own, while at it.

I'll leave your notes untouched, like I never saw them.

As for your towels, I hope you will find a less weird hiding place next time.