I’m watching the stop along the top of my closet door because it’s something I can see without moving and I don’t want to move right now. I did think about it, moving. I wanted the cold, something outdoors, a flushed moon. A picture to fit the things I’m feeling, a bridge from out there to in here. Paper-light. Blowing away.
But I kept my feet under the covers and I’m looking at the stop. It’s present. And that says something. It’s vibrant. There are colors, metal, paint. I don’t know every nook and cranny. That’s frightening, a bit, because here it is and I can only see so much. Unlike the moon, I didn’t make it – I didn’t dream it up. I’ve got no words but what it gives me. Like: daytime; invites; eggshell; the Marianas Trench.
There’s more to the world in front of me than I always give it credit for. And the things I do give credit to are more in front of me than my dreams sometimes admit.
I saw these pictures of pictures hanging up in a museum and thought about context. They were posted on my cousin’s Instagram. No filter.
I tried talking to the moon tonight but it wouldn’t let me. It was too busy waning. And I couldn’t blame it because that’s an important job.
I had to catch myself before falling head over heels again, this time with an old memory brought on by the way the sun felt and a certain sound coming off a Mario game.
I skipped my workout because I’m tired and now I’m tired because I skipped my workout. I need sleep, but I also need to know that when I’m flat on my face on the rough carpet, I can pick myself back up.
Coffee: Cafe Pajaro Extra Dark Roast, Trader Joe’s brand
Walking in the parking lot: girl in purple jogs by, seen her a few times; crickets; last ditch birds holding that daysong; every light’s on at the apartments; the moon is woebegone.
I left home to make home out of nothing. A high-pitched air conditioner; it’s all still following me.
Currently Reading: Americanah, by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
The Way of Kings, Brandon Sanderson
Even so, there were times I saw freshness and beauty. I could smell the air, and I really loved rock ‘n’ roll. Tears were warm, and girls were beautiful, like dreams. I liked movie theaters, the darkness and intimacy, and I liked the deep, sad summer nights. – Haruki Murakami, Dance Dance Dance