Untitled, from a letter

by Kaekanna Gintoli

Our body is unrested. Our head is swimming in dark water and our eyes are tricked by the light with shapes in the likenesses of dogs. We have been checking the clocks too often. We stumble blindly around our house looking, but are rarely satisfied. Time is outside of us. We are viscerally outside of the people we meet. We wish we had more to say. We want to draw out what little catharsis is available to us in this space. People respect our physical boundaries more often. We cannot describe how we are feeling. Is this text disjointed enough to show it? We are eager for their company. We already miss them dearly. This body aches all over. We are eager for its company. We have no compulsion. We have no places to go to. Our home has become a liminal space within us, rather than around us. We want to go visit someplace cold. The days melt into each other and we are still full of rage and shapes like dogs still appear in the corners of our vision. We cannot tell anyone either. Things will not change soon, and we will be pulled frther away from tangibility. We do not care about escaping isolation so much as we want to be isolated in a body that is safe, with a home around it rather than inside it. We are certain that we do not belong in this place at this time. Our hands still smell of frass and blood from a piece we’re working on. We wish we could leave you on a gentler note, but there is little gentleness inside of us right now.