19 February 2017

Postcard 82

You haven't slept for days it seems -- not really. Too real dreams, distressingly normal dreams. Anxiety normalized through closed doors, pillows, white sheets. Unbend your long arms, sore as if the longness of them made them more so. Long unbent arms shooting their soreness out to your fingers. This too is a dream, your pain-glowing arms. The unreal is real. You have been calling pages of phone numbers, numbers with some important designation of which you cannot be sure. Each call rings four times  and is answered by the same blithe young lady, redirecting you to call the next number. She is kind. She sounds kind and confused. This is her job! You shout between calls. She sits in a small grey room at a metal desk waiting patiently for each call, upright in her neat flower dress. Who put her up to this? Anxiety, an acid faucet within you. It either flows or it drips. Bad seals says the man. But can you fix it? He just closes up his box and shrugs and leaves. He was supposed to help. And you with your phone calls and that girl. It's supposed to help. And this post card -- it was supposed to help. The real is unreal and you are sore, or at least very tired. Help who anyway? I am so tired, you think. I'll just give up. The world is so large and irreconcilable. The phone in front of you is ringing again. Straighten your dress and pick up the receiver. Someone is in great distress. You, haltering, don't know how to help. Still, you persist.

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