she's a wreck, but she's salvageable
I am trapped where I am. I can't walk to school or the darkroom because of inevitably passing the apartment of a dead friend. I have trouble leaving the apartment. Unless someone else is in the apartment, and then I can't wait to get out of the apartment. I don't want to sit and drink coffee because my mind will wander and four hours later I'll be sitting, face in hands, arms locked, eyes tired. Being extremely open about how I am has helped but the glances I get somehow overpower the fact that someone is listening. Only strangers can comfort me. They know that I am in love with them and then it's easy to make me smile. A long trail of death makes me wait for my own. I know I'm sad because: I wish I were I writer again. (Which translates to: I'm begging you to help me.)
Elusive.
The last thing I want is sorry-fors. The first thing I want is a comfortable place to lay my head. Quiet streets. No more SPD pulling guns, sirens calling, eerie time stopping as it becomes clear that, yes, that is a dead man in the street. Sometimes just a man in the street, hugging the ground, as I fear for his life. Breaking out into the world where I know who my friends are. And where they are. Slow fade.
People have stopped dying in my dreams. Or if they're still dying, there are no memories upon waking. Searching out old friends frantically making sure they are still alive has worn on my conscience. But I do it anyway. My timeline is slow, careful, feeling the ground before my feet ever make their way to touching it. Normalcy does not interest me.
(And the challenges to return to it leave me disgusted. I do what I want, and right now, this is where I am. I know where I am and I don't need to hurry anything up.)
In fourteen days, eight of them will be out of Seattle. Staying away is freeing. Meeting new people who look at me as I fall in love with them is exciting. I'm talked out of the words, so laughing at front lawn concerts and early morning porch sitting is the highlight of life. Some days I can spend seven hours in the darkness printing madly as I focus on the shadows and highlights pretending each time I'll develop my life a little differently. Dodge here 20% and burn in the bottom about 100%.
The traditional escape for my family when death comes is tequila. A professional suggested that perhaps this was a problem. So I haven't escaped. Instead I stare. Waiting.
Excited to move out of the hill. Excited to wake up tomorrow. Excited to recognize every face in the street. Not lost. Not asking why. Not trying to forget. This is where I am and I'm okay being here. Doesn't make it easy, doesn't make it a better story, but makes me smile when I think of our new experimental traveling book. Won't be trapped forever.
Elusive.
The last thing I want is sorry-fors. The first thing I want is a comfortable place to lay my head. Quiet streets. No more SPD pulling guns, sirens calling, eerie time stopping as it becomes clear that, yes, that is a dead man in the street. Sometimes just a man in the street, hugging the ground, as I fear for his life. Breaking out into the world where I know who my friends are. And where they are. Slow fade.
People have stopped dying in my dreams. Or if they're still dying, there are no memories upon waking. Searching out old friends frantically making sure they are still alive has worn on my conscience. But I do it anyway. My timeline is slow, careful, feeling the ground before my feet ever make their way to touching it. Normalcy does not interest me.
(And the challenges to return to it leave me disgusted. I do what I want, and right now, this is where I am. I know where I am and I don't need to hurry anything up.)
In fourteen days, eight of them will be out of Seattle. Staying away is freeing. Meeting new people who look at me as I fall in love with them is exciting. I'm talked out of the words, so laughing at front lawn concerts and early morning porch sitting is the highlight of life. Some days I can spend seven hours in the darkness printing madly as I focus on the shadows and highlights pretending each time I'll develop my life a little differently. Dodge here 20% and burn in the bottom about 100%.
The traditional escape for my family when death comes is tequila. A professional suggested that perhaps this was a problem. So I haven't escaped. Instead I stare. Waiting.
Excited to move out of the hill. Excited to wake up tomorrow. Excited to recognize every face in the street. Not lost. Not asking why. Not trying to forget. This is where I am and I'm okay being here. Doesn't make it easy, doesn't make it a better story, but makes me smile when I think of our new experimental traveling book. Won't be trapped forever.