Pajolo Cam

This autumn has brought upon me a clawing for stability and thawing in uncertainty.

It’s like my first day being alive again—forced to feel, but not forged to deal with it.

I am as fragile as sculpted stone, feigned soft and sturdy, capable of shattering.

I shame myself for lazing around, forgetting that this inability to move is brought on by a constant overwhelm. Like a bird in a cuckoo clock, I sit… Anxiously still.

There’s a pain planted at the bottom of my spine, and it grows.

Branching out to my shoulders and neck, disfiguring my capacity to think clearly. I return to what is innate, which is to simply sit in this disturbance.

It’s all I can do when I am fearful with a faithful bed. And so I sit.

I wait for the inevitable explosion of an alarm never set.