Sabotage

All this weari­ness of doing noth­ing amongst nothings.

I think in motion; so much so that when my mind is silent my arms will move. Palm on neck, elbow near eye, knuck­les on lips, and toes curlt out of shoe. The noth­ings stack end­lessly through days until I’ve no room for thought, and con­sid­er­a­tion can­not be given to any­one. Dreams per­sist but I’m slug­gish. Still, I find my heart beat­ing faster than it has any right, so I take deep breaths and hold until the drums slow and I force sleep… all the while know­ing that I should be running.