when the refrigerator starts,
sending its vibrations through the floor
and up my elbow to my jaw,
a reminder of the familiar feeling of being high,
the one where I sensed energy thrumming through my flesh
like electricity through a thousand minute wires embedded under the skin.
It all seemed so significant to feel the body like that,
to know that that's what it could do,
to be so inside it in that way.
It meant I really was a part of this savage continuum
rather than a ghost running the halls between bouts of time.
I existed there consistently, however dumbly, with absolute conviction.
Now I hover over a kitchen table
and feel the after effects of an electric switch.
I check the lights twice from one end of the hallway to the other,
conscious with only half my heart,
testing the window for leaks with bits of tissue from the bathroom.
It feels pathetic to keep a house in order.
It's all shit and food and headaches and old from here.
There's no belief in it, just wandering and time
and wondering what it is that other people do
to stave off answering Camus' Absurd question.