In A Slippery Way From Where

. . . For me, writing through. Admissions made by the body, i.e., the heart knocking like a loose fist against the frail walls of the chest signifies "mistakes in progress." Yet as an organism in a specific environment I fumble through. Is any of this clear? Clarity is not necessarily my aim, though the benefits that accrue to it might be.

Yesterday, all day, I heard sounds that nobody else heard. Little people talking - not toddlers but fully formed adults as small as cherubs. Invisible, or around some corner anyway, their voices were low and pleasant if indistinct. Also the occasional ring - like a bell in the distance or an old-fashioned phone. Driving I felt painfully aware of how different every passing car's engine sounded, wheels whispering/humming on blacktop. Like I was all ear. Or maybe going crazy (going "mad"). No, not that. Actually, it was more like the world (a specific place, a home for the body) was throwing all it had into trying to reach me, to pull me back from some not-so-distant brink. Is that right - can I say it that way? As noted earlier, reflected on so often lately, I am prone indeed to melodrama.

Yet there is a trend here, noticeable, the way the writing - this writing - is moving, slipping, passing along. That's what it's doing - passing, in a slippery way, from where to where. We're maybe ninety seconds, one hundred twenty, into the twenty sentences and what. We're done and where are we but at the end of what.