Small bathroom, tiled all in blue. Watercolour lit in diluted sun through dense cloud then dense glass. The mirror looks on. It’s the morning before the walk before work, resting in one of the last acts of a waning routine that fights me each day while I’m still at my most doughy and malleable. The last of the branches I must plummet through and smack against in sequence, as I fall from dreams down through responsibilities until finally, I buckle against the hard surface of my front door. This final branch is a twig with bright bristles that I ritually smush over and around my cave mouth’s entrance. To dull the colour, and the worry of a breath smell I can’t perceive myself. I press too hard in my insecurity and I chew the stick as I free my hands to tie shoes and zip jackets. I know I shouldn’t, but I struggle in the blur to catch myself.
Quit Vision 