daily Soma I tell myself I will wake up then get dressed, but in wintertime I never do. I'm awake before the lights are even on. Before the stars have fallen from the sky and the horizon shifts to a cold gray yellow that matches the overcooked egg yolks I inevitably find myself sighing about at lunch. Cold hands on cold foods peeling away crackling bits of shell that fall apart with gentle little lines. The gentle crackle patterns of lines reminds me of my grandmother's skin. But she's not here, and I am. And I'm awake, but I'm doing it all again. Her life, my life, they all blur. I tell myself that everything I'm stumbling through now is just for a little while, that it will get better. Another night watching my breath turn into clouds as I whisper to you from across the layers of sheets. Another gray-yolk sunrise. I'm standing but I still find myself in my pajamas. I still catch sight of myself in the crooked hallway mirror, face unwashed and hair disheveled. At least I'm not crying every day. I've taken to weeping at the night instead. I can lay down in sorrow and rise to the morrow forgetting that any burden ever lay across my heart. But still - I never look quite like I forgot. The body keeps the score, I suppose. 231130 what's it to you? who go blather from