I exhale dust, cells of dead, spirits of ache.
My bones shift as I rise and my eyes find grey.
My body is laborious, the energy of my limbs floating between joints, sometimes fluid, sometimes stone-like.
There can be beauty in these in betweens, in the moments of quiet pensiveness when the wake of the world hushes, whispering its nothingness.
When my body is fluid, the greys of the atmosphere swirl like sage smoke, making aimless abstractions for the sake of reverie.
No purpose, just weightless, a calm being that wishes to be seen. I crave these contemplative nothings, the type of in betweens that bring neutral wonderment, where hearts beat slow, where eyes willingly unfocus, and where the dust floats out open windows.
But then there are in betweens that bring breakdowns; when the mind wanders into the acid waves of doubt and smallness; acts of pause bring panic and whirlwinds of dust turn to smoldering ash, the heat of the nowheres singeing the air.
When the windows finally open, thrusting me back into the world, I am covered in blacks and greys, dirty and downed, plucked of my perseverance, stripped of my spirit – but then my numbness and knowing say hello – recognition then rises from the pores in my skin, washing the dirt away.
I am here, in my humanness, I am as heavy as the dust on my flesh and as light as the swirls of sage I seek. So I will pick up my doubt and wash away the grime, I will save my spirit and put out the flames; I will rally my resolve and hold on to my hope till the greys of the in betweens rest my woes.