Tap, tap, tap, go the keys.
I try to process my thoughts, figure myself out, but this is akin to throwing a raindrop back into a cloud. I wonder what is troubling me so, why I’ve got to puff on so many cigarettes, how many cups of coffee should I really be drinking per day (because I’m sure I’m having a few too many).
I think of my body, my longish limbs. It’s remarkable how I feel so stubby at times but horrifically gangly at others. I wonder why I resent my body at times when all it’s done is respond to stimuli. Can I fault it for that?
The neighbors are arguing again. They are very unhappy; why do they stay together?
It was overcast today but I remarked to a friend on its beauty. He seemed surprised, which in turn surprises me. It’s not easy to appear luminous when there is no light. How does one not appreciate such marvels?
Tap, tap, tap. Still no revelation.
Am I too hard on myself for the wrong reasons? Not hard enough? I know I lack discipline; I should turn my focus to that.
Light another smoke. The ashtray slowly fills. Why is painting sunlight streams so difficult for me? They always end up too opaque, not light and airy enough. Sometimes I feel like the medium I best express myself in has yet to be invented; I should get on that.
I wonder if everyone else realizes my vulnerability. Probably, for I see theirs. I love it when people are vulnerable; it makes my heart swell and my toes tingle. I don’t like pretending I’m tough all the time and when others don’t pretend with me, well, that’s just something special.
Tap, tap, tap. I’ve got to stop for the night. I’m thinking myself in circles again.
Each time we meet I arrive with no expectations. Enjoying your company is all the pleasure I need, but I often find myself tangled in your embrace despite having the purest of intentions. There must me some glitch in my brain — I keep replaying your kisses: the ones on my forehead, my nose. Mine on your cheek. The way you wound and unwound my hair around your fingers, how I softly traced the moment across your chest. To my surprise, you kept pulling me closer. This stupid brain of mine, always searching for patterns and assigning significance to events I should probably forget. I know I shouldn’t think of these things, but I do. My idiocy is overwhelming at times; my willful ignorance alarming. I know what this is, what it will always be, but the glitch remains. Somehow I am okay with it though — the brevity, the ease, the absence of promises. I am, somehow, content.
Something about this morning is so serene. I know this calm will not last but it is hard to believe. Whenever I feel this way (could you call it content?) I can’t imagine feeling otherwise even though yesterday was fairly rotten.
I made a good breakfast. What is it about breakfast that is so satisfying? I don’t mean that in the hunger-satiating way. I don’t know, eggs and fruit on a plate make me feel like everything’s going to be all right, even if the storm clouds do roll in.
When I left my building a breeze picked up my curls and tossed them across my face. A chorus of birds chirped and I realized I had no need for my coat. Spring at last.
I foolishly hoped for an early spring, like I foolishly hope for so many things. An opportunity, a chance meeting, a reconciliation.
Each night I lie in bed thinking of you. What went wrong? Was it you or I? Doomed from the start, or did one of us muck it up?
I remember the laughter; I feel there was much of that. The early mornings before we had to face reality when the only things in existence were us and the swelling sun, when the sheets were tangled and my hair was rumpled. You told me I was beautiful so I believed you. Were we not kings in those moments?
Sometimes I think it was me. Other times, I know.
It was you.
I no longer feel the sadness — I feel your memory.
Fool.
I am such a fool.
“Everything feels unfamiliar.
I miss my home.
I like this new place, but.
There are now new windows in the old place. In my home.
Soon there will be new people, too.
And I wonder, will the smell of soot linger like it has with me?
My skin has not felt clean since.”
“3 weeks since [the fire].
Nothing matters to me.
Everything I possess smells. Not badly, but I can smell it because it’s not mine. But what do I really own? What was ever mine?
I’m so tired of people telling me it’s going to be alright.
My life was gone in a matter of minutes. Seconds.
Did I do it somehow? I am sure, so sure, nothing on my bed could have. Books? Clothes? Bedding, journals? Books clothes bedding journals. What else? A can of kerosene?
I have gone over the contents of my bed hundreds of times. I can’t think of anything out of the ordinary.
But life goes on.
Days pass and there’s plenty to be done. I don’t feel up to the task. ‘Could be worse,’ they tell me, but I know — I hate that. It makes me feel like I’m not supposed to feel upset, so I just feel foolish. Childish.
I feel devoid. I’m second-guessing myself more often and I can’t relate, empathize, care. I feel like a dead shell — a robot? — not human. Where is my heart, is it broken? In ashes like everything else?
I’m not as strong as I thought.
I am obsessive with people on the street. All I can do is imagine their homes: decorations, knick-knacks, table settings. Do they realize their fortune?
Has there been a moment in which I wasn’t supposed to be doing something since? Yes, I know responsibility exists. But this?
I’m afraid to sleep — to dream.
Luckily I can never sleep long enough to reach that point.
And yet, somehow I still breathe. Somehow I get up every day and do my best.
I hope that is what counts.”
“I wish I could accurately describe my devotion to you. The term ‘love,’ which once seemed such a daunting and powerful sentiment, is now rendered useless. How could I possibly express my feelings for you? You, who comforts me in times of sorrow, who calms my most turbulent tempests; you, who with tender glances remind me I have both heart and soul, and thus the ability to feel. And I do feel — I feel most passionately about you, a feeling I previously believed to be lost forever. What weight this has to me; to find comfort within another in this callous world is relief beyond measure.”
“In my wildest, most insane moments I doubt your ability to soothe me. I allow myself to sink a bit too far under the melancholic waves but I find that if I kick my feet a bit, I see your arm has been extended all the while.”
“I am afraid of waking up to find you vanished like a phantom, never to hear from you again. I am so mad at you when you’re not here with me. Well, no, not at you but rather at your absence. There are times I’ve wished for a massive snowstorm to hit, effectively shutting everything down so we can lie together in each other’s arms, marveling over the silence of the city and celebrating our stroke of good fortune that we’d be granted an entire day to ourselves.”
