The chair keeps knocking the wall. Not to be rude. Just because the room is small and it's learned the edges.
I sit. The mind scoots back. Bang.
A thought wants legroom. Another wants to rehearse yesterday. The chair leans. The wall answers.
Bang. A dull, honest sound.
Looking into the darkness isn’t silence. It’s feeling alive in the deadness of reality. The body shifts. Bang. Impatience. A plan. A memory with elbows. Bang. Bang.
Don’t fix the chair. Don’t scold the wall. I let the sound come, then leave, like a breath remembering.
Eventually the chair learns the space. Or I do. The knocking softens. Not gone. Just no longer arguing.
The wall stays. The chair stays. So do I.