peculiar

Life is peculiar.

Nothing is left unturned. The tides flow as they please, the wind howls as they desire, theĀ menstrual cycle. Nothing is everĀ alone. Not you, not me, not the organelles on the skin that wraps us.

Everything is always in motion. By laws of nature, like the Earth’s rotation, the Moon’s revolution, the Planets’ orbit. And by laws defying nature, like the dew that trickles down the leaf’s blade, the coffee that drips through the filter.

Everything is always happening so quickly, like the death of the dragonflies. The lashing of a tongue, the flutter a little too late, a valiant struggle, the decapitated wings, the surrender, the retrieval, the stomach unemptied.

Nothing quite makes sense. Not the language we wear on our tongues, not the herbs in the broth, not the way currency evolves. Not you.

Not me.

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