eremacausis

There is a fault line run­ning between my shoul­ders and the base of my skull. This would not be a prob­lem, it is not active; except for the many peo­ple liv­ing alongs its invis­i­ble divide, set­ting up homes, plant­ing trees, play­ing coop­er­a­tive games; except for those times I stomp from this place to another, hand shak­ing, danc­ing, falling down thump thump in the street; except for when it rains. You might think, then, it is safer to sit still on a park bench and watch oth­ers pass by, or stand before a win­dow won­der­ing at the weeds. But what if that per­son wanted to speak with me, or if the win­dow broke? Because then I would have to make room for some­thing new, and one side or the other is bound to slip even­tu­ally under the stress of one more crack or stomp. No, instead I will put on this sleep mask, plug these ears, close this mouth, and lie still under this down com­forter. That way, cer­tainly, we will all be safe.