in this lifetime
someone i do not know is running in afghanistan, ducking bullets, telling himself to keep his eyes open as beads of sweat sneak in there. some are older than me, and some of them, i am sure, are younger than me. but they will come back walking like seventy-year-old men.
my best friend wakes up a day ahead of me, to the beaches and sunlight, a world away in india. she is done with today, she is done with yesterday. she is in the future.
meanwhile, in my corner of the world, a few nights ago, i entered a room full of all my old lovers. i walked past them all, remembering all the little details. the delicate small of her back, the whiskers above his top lip, an innocent smile that makes me believe that this life, sometimes, is still gentle and pure.
i have not been able to write lately--story ideas haven't been revealing themselves to me. but i don't think it's writer's block. all the time, i'm writing these sentences in my head, and i'm sure they will show up in a story that i eventually write. i think i am not writing stories because this is a time of wonder, these past few weeks at gallaudet have been heady, almost overwhelming--and i am sure it will continue these next few months until i graduate. it's a time for everything to be savored, to be remembered--attention must be paid to the smallest details, to the big moments, to the insignificant looks i give and receive in the hallways.
on saturday morning i stumbled into bed at five am, and as i laid on my bed, thinking about just how packed my dorm room had been tonight, and how after everyone had died out at two or three in the morning, i ventured out to find another party, and then another one. it had been a complete, true night, the ones that are only when you make sure you bid farewell to the dark. i laid in bed, seeing the room brighten with the new light of another day, and i looked up at my ceiling, and saw that someone had written on it, in marker: "i <3 you josh"
i didn't know a friend had written on my ceiling. i hadn't seen her do it. this is what i mean. it must have taken her just a few minutes, balancing herself on my bed, raising her arms, writing those little letters. that was all. and for that little thing, now every time i crawl into bed, i'll look up and be reminded.
actual words on ceilings or imaginary words in your head, it's important. to be reminded. to remember.
william faulkner said, the past is never dead, it's not even past.
my best friend wakes up a day ahead of me, to the beaches and sunlight, a world away in india. she is done with today, she is done with yesterday. she is in the future.
meanwhile, in my corner of the world, a few nights ago, i entered a room full of all my old lovers. i walked past them all, remembering all the little details. the delicate small of her back, the whiskers above his top lip, an innocent smile that makes me believe that this life, sometimes, is still gentle and pure.
i have not been able to write lately--story ideas haven't been revealing themselves to me. but i don't think it's writer's block. all the time, i'm writing these sentences in my head, and i'm sure they will show up in a story that i eventually write. i think i am not writing stories because this is a time of wonder, these past few weeks at gallaudet have been heady, almost overwhelming--and i am sure it will continue these next few months until i graduate. it's a time for everything to be savored, to be remembered--attention must be paid to the smallest details, to the big moments, to the insignificant looks i give and receive in the hallways.
on saturday morning i stumbled into bed at five am, and as i laid on my bed, thinking about just how packed my dorm room had been tonight, and how after everyone had died out at two or three in the morning, i ventured out to find another party, and then another one. it had been a complete, true night, the ones that are only when you make sure you bid farewell to the dark. i laid in bed, seeing the room brighten with the new light of another day, and i looked up at my ceiling, and saw that someone had written on it, in marker: "i <3 you josh"
i didn't know a friend had written on my ceiling. i hadn't seen her do it. this is what i mean. it must have taken her just a few minutes, balancing herself on my bed, raising her arms, writing those little letters. that was all. and for that little thing, now every time i crawl into bed, i'll look up and be reminded.
actual words on ceilings or imaginary words in your head, it's important. to be reminded. to remember.
william faulkner said, the past is never dead, it's not even past.