What We Lose

By Rachelle King

Stopped. Stopped motion.

It’s what we all fear the most. The continual decline of motion in our lives.

Not forward motion. We are always moving forward.

Moving, moving…MOVE OUTA MY WAY motion. We thrust ourselves into the crowds. All the while staying in one place.

Cry. Walk. Speak. School. Learn. Bigger school. Learn. Sex. Cry. Friends. More school. Work. No friends. House. Cook. Ring. Garage sale. Sex. New house. Store. Cook. Baby. Babies. Cry. Holiday. Month. Holiday. Week. Holiday. Birthday. Holiday. Work. Crash. Death. Cancer. Death. Baby having babies. Boxes. Snow globes. Books. Fire. Books. Tire. Holiday…

We live in worlds established by the fragmented trivial things. Lose our worlds to the fragmented trivial things.

The things that ultimately result in the void we shall harbor. Nothing but everyone but ourselves. Void. Of our thoughts in our thoughts.

We are inevitably interruptible. No questions asked…except to us…about everything.

Nothing. Nothing to show for it. Nothing but the lack of time. Lack of ourselves.

Nothing but impatience, I hate you, I love you, I hate you too, why are we out of this, this tastes horrible, I shouldn’t have gotten married, I shouldn’t of had babies, I love my babies, I hate my body, you’re beautiful, you’re a little chubby, ever think of taking up jogging, why is the furniture moved around, I need my blue shirt, where’s my blue shirt, we can’t afford it, sorry, sorry, no, all right, all right but be home early, get a job, damit, where’s the stapler, the last place you left it, there’s nothing to eat, please talk to me, why won’t you just talk to me, there’s nothing left tosay,Ineedthis,Ineedthat, Iwantthiswhereisthatwhoareyouwhycan’tIloveyouImarriedhimIhavenothingnothingbuthimandthemandnotmewhereismewhereismewhereamIIcan’tfindmewhereareyou, who are you?

And they wonder why few women write.

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