Saffari takes a blurred action shot of coffeeshopblues.

At home

Things are going to get strange from time to time. What brings me home is a tragedy. Lets bluntly explore it, this tragedy as it is.

To start, I have little to say. Partly, due to the shock, it is difficult to care about much. Partly, as the old adage dictates, if you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all. This shock, manifests as, classic escapism, the desire to sleep or be self destructive. The former, ensuring  you’re never quite well rested. The latter, a tireless catalyst for some decent misadventures. These, however, will not be making it on the net. Innocent till proven guilty, as it goes.

There too, is an injection of anxiety, it’s a hard wire. There’s no buzz, only inattention and resulting doubt. Check, check, check again. On a decision that took a while to make in the first place. It hides in the dark, there’s no warning that your thought train has derailed. Everything else, ticks on indifferently.

Stuck in a blurred action shot. Not quite on beat. Social grace becomes alarmingly draining. Making it all the more difficult to hold back the snap at an insincere interaction. If ever there was a time for that shit, know grievance is most certainly not it. It’s weird, we know. It’s awkward, we feel it. Its cool, neither of us can help it. We’re raw right now, don’t spend too long, please.

All the “outs” and “arounds” have been tried, it seems the only way through, is through. No smooth talk, no bribes, no waiting for it to blow over. Only, exhausting yourself taking care. Chin up, chest out, stiff upper lip and other Elizabethan aphorisms, are the only brace found against the chaos.

But eyes never lie, and boy are they ignoring that advice. Set behind ashen skin, corners downturned, they lead directly to the swallowed pain. Past the social niceties, past  the little lies. The honest truth sits. To be worn, as the first filter to the world.  The pain they leak is but spillage from the reservoir. Pain, so immense, it too, finds few words to recount it. Drowning out hue, almost all-together.

It’s not that the world ceases to be beautiful, just that the map changes. The saving grace being – that raw nerves are easily impressible. Making those rare moments of beauty deeply impressing, to the brink of ecstasy. Therein lies the whisper of hope. The proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.

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