I'm in love with no one in particular.
Yesterday I was so nervous that it hurt breathe. Oxygen had been scraped into a sharp sword and it cut my throat. I bled blue blood and I knew it because I tasted metallic from fingers to toes. But that is a lie, and you know it,too.
Now the inside of my mouth tastes like root beer gone flat, instead. This preternatural clam is saving me. I am passive and alert and retrospective and now would be a very good time to make an unexpected observation that will convince the doctor there is something wrong with me. I will tell you how neon-bold the cruel nike slash on your stark white tennis shoe is. Or I will tell you that her voice sounds like cranberry juice, or I will agree that Limestone Dasani fixes everything.
And you will not argue or admit you are worried about me.
Yesterday when the air had been blacksmithed and my heart was an anvil, I ran everywhere my feet could find. Nearly. I wanted to run by the river. I wanted to see the moonlight on the tide, and the stripes of street light-fingers reaching across the warped black waves. But the traffic was daunting and the thought of all those people on all those seats made me want to go anywhere else. It made me want to get as far into the woods as I could, or it made me want to dig myself a hole that would take me all the way to China. So I went home,finally. And I wasn't short of breath and even strain and sweat felt nicer than normal. I lingered on the porch until the anvil calmed down and then I went inside and back to work.
And so on.
And so forth.
This Preternatural Calm is saving me.
76,241 words. Crisp clear ink and Times New Roman. Bright white ink jet paper that has edges which turn ultraviolet purple when you flip through them in the right light. Seventy-six-thousand-two-hundred-forty-one words. And I could sit here and write a thousand more, until the affliction of glassy dry eyes drove me to the swimming pool.
And then I would simply taste chlorine.
Flat root beer and blue metallic and swimming pool aftertaste and preternatural calm. Right now, I think those four things could be my autobiography.
I put myself in a big, padded yellow envelope and taped myself in. They weighed me and placed the appropriate postage on the outside of the envelope. I felt their fingers press briefly against me through the thin paper wall. I felt their forefinger and thumb smooth the stamps out and check the edges to make sure they were stuck down,too.
It was cozy and dark in there. It hurt a little when they threw me into the mail truck.
I'm on my way to Alaska or New York.
This Preternatural Calm is saving me.
Now the inside of my mouth tastes like root beer gone flat, instead. This preternatural clam is saving me. I am passive and alert and retrospective and now would be a very good time to make an unexpected observation that will convince the doctor there is something wrong with me. I will tell you how neon-bold the cruel nike slash on your stark white tennis shoe is. Or I will tell you that her voice sounds like cranberry juice, or I will agree that Limestone Dasani fixes everything.
And you will not argue or admit you are worried about me.
Yesterday when the air had been blacksmithed and my heart was an anvil, I ran everywhere my feet could find. Nearly. I wanted to run by the river. I wanted to see the moonlight on the tide, and the stripes of street light-fingers reaching across the warped black waves. But the traffic was daunting and the thought of all those people on all those seats made me want to go anywhere else. It made me want to get as far into the woods as I could, or it made me want to dig myself a hole that would take me all the way to China. So I went home,finally. And I wasn't short of breath and even strain and sweat felt nicer than normal. I lingered on the porch until the anvil calmed down and then I went inside and back to work.
And so on.
And so forth.
This Preternatural Calm is saving me.
76,241 words. Crisp clear ink and Times New Roman. Bright white ink jet paper that has edges which turn ultraviolet purple when you flip through them in the right light. Seventy-six-thousand-two-hundred-forty-one words. And I could sit here and write a thousand more, until the affliction of glassy dry eyes drove me to the swimming pool.
And then I would simply taste chlorine.
Flat root beer and blue metallic and swimming pool aftertaste and preternatural calm. Right now, I think those four things could be my autobiography.
I put myself in a big, padded yellow envelope and taped myself in. They weighed me and placed the appropriate postage on the outside of the envelope. I felt their fingers press briefly against me through the thin paper wall. I felt their forefinger and thumb smooth the stamps out and check the edges to make sure they were stuck down,too.
It was cozy and dark in there. It hurt a little when they threw me into the mail truck.
I'm on my way to Alaska or New York.
This Preternatural Calm is saving me.