For something to atrophy, it must first reach a certain altitude, like knowing warmth before distinguishing cold, or joy before grief. In language, I suppose atrophy comes after passing the periphery of form, when the curve circles back to its bare components, the phrases and the words: an undoing.
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The end of the decade began at a literal high. In January, I spent a week-long trip in the mountains up north, high as a kite. The scenery was serene and so was I. But as the bus spiraled down the mountain road, the high, likewise, spiraled down. At a rest stop, I received a text from my mother saying I should buy face masks if I could because they were sold out all over the metro….
Keep on reading: Year of atrophy