stinking funk

I am finally stuck in a strange funk again. I mean a falling asleep in a bed of roses which you wake up to find grown around you kind of funk. It’s enveloping me hotly and mournfully. I find the little items which once defined my life—doll head baubles, pins, broken sunglasses, single earrings, and baby teeth. They sound like trash listed like that, but each is a terrifyingly expendable symbol of my life’s content passed through objects. As I live inside a space decorated by these symbols, my skin stretches out to merge with it. I wake up with webbed fingers, as the space between then has reached out to its kin—the corporeal body. I’m taller, my cheekbones more prominent. It seems everyday I spend in this bed is one that my body experience what I can only presuppose as a sort of accelerated entropy. The molecules of my body are attempting to move farther and father away from each other. Soon, I’ll have to fold yards of skin into my pants every morning. I turn the lights on, and the world freezes. I saw this in a movie once I think. Frozen stands a car crash’s exact moment of impact before collision, a person in the instant of falling in love, a punch in the face, three peoples moments before death, an air conditioning unit suspended in the air, and me stretching towards my walls. The moment is one of perfect alignments. I’m panting, gathering myself up to watch frozen time. Stillness is what I’ve needed. Shock beckons a presence I haven’t felt in a long time. There’s no one out my window, but I get on my bike and witness the world still as I pass. I touch faces, I open doors, I eat, I drag my body behind me.