I need to get a foothold

I need to get a foothold. The sun is limp in the window, between the blinds. It has been floating around my room for so long that my teeth can feel it swirling around them, liquidly, milky, sending me back into sleep and rising me back through itself every so often to think about rolling over, readjusting the pillows, or wondering how orange it could ever get. I will lay here and the light wont change. It will get dark then later again will get light. It wont change colour. When it is barely light and the brick wall outside my window is silver, I can almost see through it. It would be the same colour as the sky would be, and my room is silver. It is damp for a moment at sunrise and then becomes desert dry. In those silver seconds I have my eyes open, they may have been open for hours, but when the light trickles across them I know for certain, and in that colourlessness I wonder whether I am waking up somewhere else, someone else, in a room filled with things made of dark wood, with oval mirrors and mirrored trays with glass phials and atomisers, picture frames with faces and a sky above the window that is waiting for the sun to hit the flocculent clouds that change as the day changes, swirling and parting to show all different colours of heaven. I wonder whether it is all canceled out in the silver. The special things and idiosyncrasies that make me someone are canceled out against each other in reflections and unity of my presence, or that just waking up, or just seeing the light waking up the city it will take a moment for me to snap into myself and into my room and into a day that moves with the natural cadence with the revolving earth.

I wait through silver moments. In the space of time that the wave laps against the opposite wall and returns to me by the window, which is no space at all, it is a dictation of my trepidation, all of the hopes I carry, all of my faith in regenerative avoidance, swells in an array of pictures of tidy arranged views across appointed tables and out windows through swaying leaves, rooms with colour and depth, a breeze playing through the open window, purely emptying the air, through my hair, dries my lips and the walls. I can only conjure so much. The wave pulls back over dust and an arid bleak horizon. If there was anything assembling in the flash of magic at dawn, some unveiled life that I had forgotten about, I didnt want to open my eyes on to it. I wanted that it had always been there. Full stop, cut, insert me, engage. Watching something happen is so less believable than happening upon it. I need to set this day apart as something so I close my eyes before it becomes itself, another, like the last, without that fullness that I picture from deep behind my eyes.



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