the way i like it

the brown, cloudy water swirls clockwise down the drain, and I get a chance to look at my hands.  stained.  different shades of black and brown are cracked and scratched across my skin.  blisters, some purple with blood, others puffy with water, and scabs, dominate the landscape.  each nail is filled with dried, tan soil. 

tiny, paper-cut-like scratches sting in the hot water.  working with metal wire always draws blood, although never enough to run.  a bright red, bee sting of a scratch at the moment is already a fading, pink whisper of its original self. 

everything aches, checking in with the rest of me now.  from my shoulders, sore from maneuvering fifty pound sacks, to my knees, bruised from knee-walking around the farm at a plant’s eye view, to my hips and groin, burdened by thousands of squats, to my neck, a bit wrenched, to the balls and arches I stand on—everything—aches. 

my brain is fatigued from macro and micro planning.  I feel my synapses forced to action-star-leap from building top to building top, just to reach the next cell.  entire area codes of my mind that spent the whole day spinning, thinking, and prioritizing countless decisions, are now empty, quiet oases, hushed by a sweeping dullness.  the final few thoughts which cling to the ceiling of my dome lose their shaky grips, and now they too swirl clockwise, and wash down the drain.

i love having physical reminders of what I do at work.  I hurt because I did, and for that I am happy.