I have yet to unearth the many common things that are dusted over with the everyday dirt of coming and going. Simple things when I become invisible when standing directly in front of mirrors. These things that are trapped in the skin no matter how many times it replaces itself.
I can read fiction again like I used to. Attempted books that failed with my math eyes at around page 100. A musky sweet, white paperback of Hot Water Music and Deadeye Dick just this week.
I have noticed a softness coming back into my voice instead of the sharp angularities that are forced from my steady confident-self. I am sing-song in my way of speech as I feel weaker and weaker.
I'm not sure where I was but I'm returning with all my weaknesses, and awkward prejudices hanging off my fingers in ghost form.