Forty Seven

The poison that is everyday.

So many everydays. One everyday that follows another everyday.
Everyday that’s so everyday.
Habits, routines, circadian rhythms, time – lies that we tell ourselves that our lives are under control.

Like the time-lapse in the subway, under flickering lights, fleeting faces that flit like flies, the fleeing hands of the subway clock. The time-lapse, where we are the constant. Where we pointlessly stare at the dustbin. The cooing of the underground. The gentle rumbling. The lull.

The sedateness of everyday.

Everyday slips in, in a moment of lowered consciousness.
Through the holes of fingers nettled in prayer for strength.
Everyday slips in, like faithful Morphene for chronic pain of the Eventually Forgettable variety.

And then, after many everydays, comes a One Day.

3 thoughts on “Forty Seven”

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