|
|
Another day, in a series of days... inexorable, inevitable leakage, like a silent, slow-motion avalanche. Like the clich�d evacuation of an hourglass: the thin exodus of sand, perpetually removing... stealing away from the finite chamber above; the spent remains expiring in a spired husk, chambered, below. The imperceptable flattening of a tire... unrelenting pressures of cold, and hot, and friction, and wear, and weakness... that's another allegory. Sickenly unbalanced to one side, crippled. Very much like the real-life erosion of the two-hundred-fifty gallons of heating oil in the the tank, outside... every time the furnace cycled, another unnoticed measure of potential, escaping through the cracks in the window moldings, under the doors, through the poorly insulated walls, themselves. And then... nothing. I should have felt it coming. Perhaps I did, subconsciously. Wednesday: impending and uncomfortable. Another soul-deflating layer of snow, laying in wait in the promise of more, much more. Irritations and unkindnesses, harsh words, unintendedly harsher rejections. Then, the stealing away, into the night. On roads occulted by crystalline shroud, occasional bare patches reuniting tread and firmament... more often, the uncertain lurch off course, uneven layers and viscosities of snow inviting chaos into the equation from point "A" to point "B." The effort, sapping away the last defenses, inspirations, motivations. Forcing myself into consciousness in the too-bright morning... bright, not from sunlight, but from the diffused reflection of billions of swirling flakes. Unending. Forcing myself also, to do. Anything. Lining up a substitute for Friday's show, Mountain Rasta bailing out of yet another. Again. And Again. Another snowy drive to town, to buy what we would need should we not be able to get out, soon... Miss Jane chosing to remain locked in the house, all day Wednesday, rather than anticipate the same scenario. Living, it seems, only to react, not to anticipate the possibilities. Impossible to react, later, to her first caress in months and months... that, too, has run dry. Until, around five-thirty, I could deal with consciousness no more. To sleep... to escape. But that is not possible. This we know. As I type this, late into the night, my toes are needled by the chill... an hour before, I checked the thermostat, blinking at the unaccustomed 62�. Throwing on coats and boots and gloves... high-stepping to the tanks, that rocked on their frames from the emptiness. Forgotten by the oil man. Silently, I cursed... then thanked the God That Doesn't Care for giving me the mind to keep a kerosene heater in the house, as well as five gallons of fuel. No one will freeze. The pipes won't break. But, I don't think this ice will break in my chest. Feeling the soul leak out of me with every cigarette I light. Wondering if it's worth it, not so much "why." |
|
|
