Small

I just spent 2 days on twitter. Then a voice came to me and said, “What on this Earth are you doing?”
It sounded like a tweet.

I watched the world pass over the screen. Pinhole to the sun. Scrolling boldface, screaming frantic letters all a-jumble with symbols and pictures and shorthand meant for the tribe: a river of id.

A few times, I let mine go too, joining that collective wave of trolling high fives and pictures on repeat. A witticism makes you stand tall over the shrinking world.

I was trolled by an angry feminist poet.
And lectured by a man who called me “sweety.”

The id is a witch who casts a spell.
And that is all it is. All it ever will be: a trick that turns the world askew, big to small, and you to Master of all.

Outside the sun set, my children left for the weekend, already fighting in their father’s car. The dogs needed walking, the bank account needs filling, and I sat there, the spell killing what was left of the day.

As I pressed “de-activate” I thought:
never again, these two days.
They are gone, and no amount of remembrance will retrieve them.

I pray
to be awake.