I have cycled out.

The dark, wet slog has begun to brighten and dry, leaving me free, coated in fine dust.

The dust is the residue that resists the cycling out.

There. In my hair, on my hands, clinging to my eyelashes, on everything that I have touched or ever will touch.

I have cycled out.

The exhaustion and heavy eyelids are replaced with a thrill that makes my mind race and busies my hands.

Ignoring the dust, I pick up the pace. I can’t be

still.

I wipe at the dust from the last time and dance and laugh and sing too loudly.

I have cycled out.

The heft of the burden of the last is there. It’s in the knotted hair and the fifteen days of hot dogs.

It’s in the 50 books that were started and stopped.

It’s in the unwritten blog posts.

It’s in the grabbing at the ephemera that should be words filed into my brain.

It’s in forgetting important dates and meetings.

It’s in the snapping at my kids and wishing that I hadn’t.

It’s in the refilled prescription bottles scattered around the house.

The weightlessness holds hands with distracted ness.

I have cycled out.

It’s in the 15 household tasks that were started and abandoned.

It’s in the movies and books and music.

It’s in the mass consumption of food and books and groceries.

It’s in the single-mindedness of devouring everything that strikes my fancy.

It’s in the fancy that is struck.

It is in the missed sleep and increased migraines and in the Cheshire dreams when sleep does come.

I have cycled out.

And I will fall forward again. The dust will congeal and the dark, wet slog will pull me forward.

I will cycle back.

I always cycle back. The back. The dust. The missed sleep.

It will always draw me back from the mire. I just need to be patient.

I have cycled out.

I have cycled out.

I will.

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