It’s okay to wake with an aluminium can in your chest,
To take twice as long
To do half as much,
To become lost in the cosmic space
of a leaf, or the question,
“How are you doing?”
To miss the humdrum of bodies in movement,
The absence of ceilings
The comfort of doors.
It’s okay to find pleasure
in the silence of distance,
– a disheveling of rhythms.
It’s okay to not know exactly how many people
are sick, are dead, are haphazardly buried
It’s okay to have nothing to spare
Not even a question,
Or a gentle nudge,
Or a comma in the shape of a stitch.
Your every particle is drenched
with the weight of grief.
Rest your heart to the ground.
– jac smk
[after a week where there were different conversation threads with friends who are also activists in one form of another]
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