Rude awakening

There is a desire to live through a narrative, so strong if there is a will there is a way, no matter the price. Poking at old wounds with sticks, spoons, even when nerve connections have long since resigned.

You are forced to say certain things as a victim of circumstance, as a prisoner of the limits of our language(s). We are not old enough, wise enough, to know (of) better. I stare at pictures of old men. I attempt to rationalize the emotional. I attempt to rationalize a reality outside my own. I attempt.

I attempt and glasses shatter. More glasses shatter. Groceries for the first time in weeks. Crying over buying a cucumber. I pause for longer and longer to pick apart the meanings of single thoughts. Crying for buying a cucumber. Crying because of how that cucumber somehow represents loneliness. Crying over not being able to buy food. Over. Above; the end?

You say things I need to hear more than things I want to. What you say is not what I want to hear. What you say is a professional kitchen the morning after hundreds of jubilant customers and no one doing the dishes and I am in disbelief. I am incredulous. You are professional. I am not paid but I clean up anyway.