The Shape of a Body — Dear Lithium

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At a certain point, there is a departure. Something like, somewhere south of the border it begins to rain so hard . . .and this is important, the hook for you, the reason to continue. Cold hands and stiff fingers because the summer’s gone and still, you can’t say yet you’ve travelled past it. It’s important also to state the facts as they stand, draw out the lay of the land, say a speech to the crowd to rally the troops. Analytics, a reader of one, so preach to me, the converted. Pin another picture to the wall and suggest to yourself that soon, you’ll make it happen. No, don’t need a saviour.

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To leave, a number of steps should be taken. Warm your hands, boil some water, pack essentials into a sack to drag like a body to the car. Type a note that says ‘a foot in the desert’ then wrap it round the bundle of letters and stuff them in the glove compartment.

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You dream of this. All the movements in your hands, the breathlessness when you run back up to the top of the stairwell, the acceptance of life. But that’s not right, not yet. At a certain point, there is a departure, and it begins with a wasp in a window, a picture on a screen, and the question to the walls: is there even such a thing as forward?

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