Tales from the cryptic...
This is where I try to write like my longest friend...
Apartments are like my memory. The emptier they are, the more I see in them. The flat spots on the floor where my couch legs matted the carpet, and how much that one night of passion must have pushed the fibers down. I see a bedroom missing the bed that held my head, my dreams, my so-called lover for half a year. I think back to when I looked forward to the end of the lease, to freedom, to a chance to move on. And moving I am...
And yet, moving with what progress? Work is better and worse, and I'm ambivalent about another stint in Chicago. My wallet screams the words "go", my memories of a very fun month say "try again!", but my feet that are tired of standing in two homes at once say, "enough already!".
Workouts devoid of intensity and duration drain me somehow, and yet are still showing progress. My end of the couch I sold was as light as a golf ball, even if it was a 40" wide golf ball.
Torn between desire for Ms. Right and enjoying Ms. Right Now(s). If only both were pulling me in the same direction.
And there you have it, I will never be as prosaic is she...
Apartments are like my memory. The emptier they are, the more I see in them. The flat spots on the floor where my couch legs matted the carpet, and how much that one night of passion must have pushed the fibers down. I see a bedroom missing the bed that held my head, my dreams, my so-called lover for half a year. I think back to when I looked forward to the end of the lease, to freedom, to a chance to move on. And moving I am...
And yet, moving with what progress? Work is better and worse, and I'm ambivalent about another stint in Chicago. My wallet screams the words "go", my memories of a very fun month say "try again!", but my feet that are tired of standing in two homes at once say, "enough already!".
Workouts devoid of intensity and duration drain me somehow, and yet are still showing progress. My end of the couch I sold was as light as a golf ball, even if it was a 40" wide golf ball.
Torn between desire for Ms. Right and enjoying Ms. Right Now(s). If only both were pulling me in the same direction.
And there you have it, I will never be as prosaic is she...