Rusty Rings

When the sound around me stays still, I ring. Like a round record playing a steady pitch, there are picks and pocks to the smoothness of the ring. As the skin on the back of my hands creases, I feel the scalded skin become firm and beg for nails to be deeply drawn across it. Beams of green neon flash behind my eyelids, as they flutter from exhaustion - never feeling calm when closed and never feeling strong when open.

Today was colder than yesterday. I had trouble recalling what point I was at in my life. I believe I'm at a point somewhere after it's beginning - always hoping to be a little bit closer to it's end than to it's beginning. It feels better, much much better, to believe the latter. Much much better, to imagine winding down. To at long last, be winding down this life. To at long last, be able to wind life in some direction. I'm tired of being rusty.