Sometimes, I find myself thinking about the metaphysics of progress, of our bodies’ journey, you know? Of ways to abstain from practical lives filled with dread and flowers. We talk and say obscene things, but there’s nothing to sustain it, nothing can bear the weight of lived experience. I see it in their faces, in every wrinkle that’s yet to be etched on my face and may never be. The battle is being waged inside me. And it’s impossible to express.
