It may be easier than yesterday.
I feel it that way
when I recall a previous day,
because I believed
the road would be long.
When I watched
the ceiling pressing down on me,
my chest was
caught between it and the mattress,
cutting off
my breath.
I can’t help
but laugh a little.
My mind
makes an instinctive denial,
almost immediate,
which reminds me
how funny it is
to remember myself
in that state.
I wish I could have
this clarity
and that sarcasm
in my hardest
moments.
But I also enjoy
the feeling that comes
after.
That breath,
broken and loud,
has turned
into a wave
at six
in the morning,
its breezes
travel
through the whole body
and fill it
with calm.
I think
I might return
to the same place.
I can almost
be sure of it.
I don’t want
to underestimate
those moments,
and I go on
making peace
with it.
Part of the cycle
is knowing how to return to them
with different perspectives
and something new.
Perhaps unharmed,
lost,
but something emerges from moments
when we can’t see ourselves
anywhere:
separateness
and a body that becomes futile.
Now I know how to get out.
Returning to constants—
they are what trace
a path back
into simplicity.
How important
Sunday cleanings are.
From time to time I discard
my mental habits,
along with what I have to wash.
Photography by Zhao Rong Tan
