Under a Wrong Constellation
The dog is limping. Favoring his left hind leg; moreover, a display
of lameness in the right.
One of my bosses texts me after 8pm. Maybe he remembers I am
back from my trip. In any case, he wants my time. I have returned
from the trip sick. And the dog is unwell. And sadly it feels like
these are not the worst of my troubles.
I owe everyone I can think of something.
I’m supposed to move and find work back where I probably never
should have left.
Technically I make decisions. I was just reading about learned
helplessness and, although I have thought of “learned” in the
context of behavior or scholarly accomplishment in times past—it
seems to have found its current comfort.
Turns out the thoughts that pop / into the foreground of your mind /
are not necessarily those of most value / are not necessarily those
deserving of equal weight.
I hate that I accumulate things. I hate that I cannot get rid of them
once I have them. I hate myself for letting myself choose against
my intentions. This is not the paradox of choice. This is a paradox
of the ununified/irreconcilable self.
The dog has fallen asleep and is quietly yelping in dream. It feels
important to note his legs are not kicking. Sometimes they kick.
They certainly used to.