(no subject)
If I can produce this on demand, in ten minutes, why don't I do it more?
She liked clear divisions of time. As in: That was the Age of Steven. The Week of Cocaine went by so quickly. Those were the Gin Months. This is the Year of Dragging Feet.
She only names her days in retrospect, when crossing off days on the calendar with an oil pastel, weeks at a time forgotten to negate while too immersed in this obsession, that drug, those boys or nothing, nothing worth naming.
It is 1 AM, October third, and she is standing in the kitchen, drawing the pastel across the last weeks of September on the refrigerator calendar. She's struggling, she wants it to come naturally. The Weeks of Unemployment? That sounds inactive, a dead pile of blankets. September of Self-effacement? Heart-wrenching to look back on.
The Month of Me. In September, with no obligations, no money, no love, she was herself. She draws the last line through September 30 and her heartbeat slows. It's over, it has a name, it's done. The Month of Me is done.
She can begin October with another outlook, another name. She'll meet an overtly-sexual crowd; it'll be the October of Orgies! She'll take some marine biology classes: October of Octopi!
And yet-- she pirouettes, arms arching extravagantly. Her back to fridge, leans back, slides to the floor. In a perfect world, the tears reach her chin as she reaches the floor. Drip just as she sits. But this world is as imperfect as they come. Wouldn't it have been nice?
Don't be distracted. Tell me.
She liked clear divisions of time. As in: That was the Age of Steven. The Week of Cocaine went by so quickly. Those were the Gin Months. This is the Year of Dragging Feet.
She only names her days in retrospect, when crossing off days on the calendar with an oil pastel, weeks at a time forgotten to negate while too immersed in this obsession, that drug, those boys or nothing, nothing worth naming.
It is 1 AM, October third, and she is standing in the kitchen, drawing the pastel across the last weeks of September on the refrigerator calendar. She's struggling, she wants it to come naturally. The Weeks of Unemployment? That sounds inactive, a dead pile of blankets. September of Self-effacement? Heart-wrenching to look back on.
The Month of Me. In September, with no obligations, no money, no love, she was herself. She draws the last line through September 30 and her heartbeat slows. It's over, it has a name, it's done. The Month of Me is done.
She can begin October with another outlook, another name. She'll meet an overtly-sexual crowd; it'll be the October of Orgies! She'll take some marine biology classes: October of Octopi!
And yet-- she pirouettes, arms arching extravagantly. Her back to fridge, leans back, slides to the floor. In a perfect world, the tears reach her chin as she reaches the floor. Drip just as she sits. But this world is as imperfect as they come. Wouldn't it have been nice?
Don't be distracted. Tell me.