my days, now.
It's only 5:30 & it's already dark out. Not that it matters, in this cold, sunless city. The buildings stretch up into infinity. blocking out any light that may be lurking up there. It's so damn bleak outside, so i hole myself up in this room with its false warmth & artificial light. But they turned the heat off to-day, & my walls are a monument to times past, so i've nowhere to go
* * *
Once, there was sun & sky & ocean & trees. My tan lines are still there. Standing stark naked in my bedroom, i study my body and think of the days spent earning the memories burned into my skin. i like to stare iinto the mirror, unblinking, until all my features blur together. i'm not looking at myself, these days, only what i've become.
* * *
2:30pm, smoking the first cigarette of the day, the one that makes my head light. I've just woken up, but everyone around me is acting as 230 is the middle of the afternoon. they quickly walk past me in the blistering cold, without so much as a nod of acknowledgement. No one knows anything about anyone else here. We're all strangers in this city. We bump into each other & move on, barely making eye contact. The street is goddamn fashion show; girls strutting in their pointy clicky heels & burberry scarves. men in their tight expensive jeans & popped collars. But no one's looking, really, because we've all got someplace important & exciting & interesting to be & we have the time to take notice of anyone else.
But not me, today. Never me. I stand to the side, obsessively flicking ash like a true neurotic, far remvoed from the fashionable chaos of the city. I wonder about all these people, where they're going, if they're satisfied, if they'd even acknowledge me if i asked.
* * *
We killed ourselved every night on that back deck, but at least we felt alive. There was so much love in that house, the air was thick with it. In the warmth of the summer, our love grew & thrived until it was almost too much. But it was just enough for me. In the stifling heat, where PPs are is my home. Never have people made me so truly happy. My neuroses melt away, & that's how i can tell it's right.
He told me not to put my shirt back on, to never put my shirt back on, because i was so beautiful & he liked to look at me & feel my skin against his. I wonder how he is to-day, & if he says these wonderful little things to her, too & if anyone could ever love him like i loved him, like i love him.
* * *
From my window, i can see the city. The streets & the rooftops & the trees & the people are covered in snow. The best thing about snow, i think, is how it looks before people touch it. it's absolutely blank, like all the ugliness of the world has been washed away. Not in the city, though. The snow has barely made it to the ground before someone is getting rid of it. it's really more like a dirty slush than a pristine blanket. the ugliness of the world, the ugliness of people, is only more apparent against the clean white of the snow.
* * *
It starts in the center of my forehead. Slowly, it spreads. to my whole face. to my neck & to my shoulders & to the pit of my stomach. My hands steady. My soul breathes a sigh of relief. I have found my misplaced sanity, inside a free Bank of America cup. Once outside, i rejoin my old friend, dried-puke-from-thursday-night. I cannot tell the difference between the smoke & the hot breath floating from my lips. The streets are empty, for the most part, excpet for the occasional cab. I am utterly alone out here. It's better, i guess, than than being alone in a sea of friends & acquaintances. When i am inside, my head hits the pillow & i spin my way into sublime oblivion. I comfortably & wrecklessly spin until i sleep & i don't have to think so much anymore.
* * *
One. two, three, four, five. I count five cubicles from where i'm sitting. There are dozens more out of my sight. Each one, adorned with postcards & newspaper clippings & oversized calendars & photographs of grandchildren. Elementary christmas decorations-- red&green construction paper chains & printer-paper snowflakes-- litter the office & add to the claustrophobic appeal of the place. Work study students scatter the office. They absentmindedly enter dates, names into computers. Highlight things in large lists. Shred records & organize documents.
My boss knits a scarf, presumably someone's christmas gift. We spoke about Hemingway earlier-- she in her broken english & i trying not to reveal that i hadn't the faintest idea what she was saying. She's a good woman-- pays me to sit here & scribble my words & lose myself in Hemingway & Dylan.
It's cold as hell in here & it reeks like old coffee & lost hope. Every record of "did not graduate" & every diploma awarded for Creative Writing & the like-- it all builds up & creates this unsurmountable atmosphere of desperation. It feels to much like unrealized potential in here. I guess that's why I can't get myself out of bed to come here, most days. That's what i'll say, at least. poeticize my reasons for ineffectualism so that no one can argue with it.
I'll get on the train, soon. sit amongst the well-educated business people armed with newspapers & the Ugg-equipped studnets. I'll feel out place there, too--just like every place i go now-- but Hemingway & Dylan will protect me from the small talk. No one will have to know just how terrified i am even to leave my room if i don't have to talk.
* * *
I continually replay these scenes in my head-- from times when i could claim that i was truly happy. They're not so important, really. It just calms me to think of when i wasn't constantly meditating on the issue of my ever-present depression-- to remember when i didn't have to remember when. He loved me, then. & i was sure of the affections of my closest friends, then. It seems to me that's gone, now & all i can do is remember until that-- or something like it-- comes around again.
Christ, i hate the winter.
* * *
Once, there was sun & sky & ocean & trees. My tan lines are still there. Standing stark naked in my bedroom, i study my body and think of the days spent earning the memories burned into my skin. i like to stare iinto the mirror, unblinking, until all my features blur together. i'm not looking at myself, these days, only what i've become.
* * *
2:30pm, smoking the first cigarette of the day, the one that makes my head light. I've just woken up, but everyone around me is acting as 230 is the middle of the afternoon. they quickly walk past me in the blistering cold, without so much as a nod of acknowledgement. No one knows anything about anyone else here. We're all strangers in this city. We bump into each other & move on, barely making eye contact. The street is goddamn fashion show; girls strutting in their pointy clicky heels & burberry scarves. men in their tight expensive jeans & popped collars. But no one's looking, really, because we've all got someplace important & exciting & interesting to be & we have the time to take notice of anyone else.
But not me, today. Never me. I stand to the side, obsessively flicking ash like a true neurotic, far remvoed from the fashionable chaos of the city. I wonder about all these people, where they're going, if they're satisfied, if they'd even acknowledge me if i asked.
* * *
We killed ourselved every night on that back deck, but at least we felt alive. There was so much love in that house, the air was thick with it. In the warmth of the summer, our love grew & thrived until it was almost too much. But it was just enough for me. In the stifling heat, where PPs are is my home. Never have people made me so truly happy. My neuroses melt away, & that's how i can tell it's right.
He told me not to put my shirt back on, to never put my shirt back on, because i was so beautiful & he liked to look at me & feel my skin against his. I wonder how he is to-day, & if he says these wonderful little things to her, too & if anyone could ever love him like i loved him, like i love him.
* * *
From my window, i can see the city. The streets & the rooftops & the trees & the people are covered in snow. The best thing about snow, i think, is how it looks before people touch it. it's absolutely blank, like all the ugliness of the world has been washed away. Not in the city, though. The snow has barely made it to the ground before someone is getting rid of it. it's really more like a dirty slush than a pristine blanket. the ugliness of the world, the ugliness of people, is only more apparent against the clean white of the snow.
* * *
It starts in the center of my forehead. Slowly, it spreads. to my whole face. to my neck & to my shoulders & to the pit of my stomach. My hands steady. My soul breathes a sigh of relief. I have found my misplaced sanity, inside a free Bank of America cup. Once outside, i rejoin my old friend, dried-puke-from-thursday-night. I cannot tell the difference between the smoke & the hot breath floating from my lips. The streets are empty, for the most part, excpet for the occasional cab. I am utterly alone out here. It's better, i guess, than than being alone in a sea of friends & acquaintances. When i am inside, my head hits the pillow & i spin my way into sublime oblivion. I comfortably & wrecklessly spin until i sleep & i don't have to think so much anymore.
* * *
One. two, three, four, five. I count five cubicles from where i'm sitting. There are dozens more out of my sight. Each one, adorned with postcards & newspaper clippings & oversized calendars & photographs of grandchildren. Elementary christmas decorations-- red&green construction paper chains & printer-paper snowflakes-- litter the office & add to the claustrophobic appeal of the place. Work study students scatter the office. They absentmindedly enter dates, names into computers. Highlight things in large lists. Shred records & organize documents.
My boss knits a scarf, presumably someone's christmas gift. We spoke about Hemingway earlier-- she in her broken english & i trying not to reveal that i hadn't the faintest idea what she was saying. She's a good woman-- pays me to sit here & scribble my words & lose myself in Hemingway & Dylan.
It's cold as hell in here & it reeks like old coffee & lost hope. Every record of "did not graduate" & every diploma awarded for Creative Writing & the like-- it all builds up & creates this unsurmountable atmosphere of desperation. It feels to much like unrealized potential in here. I guess that's why I can't get myself out of bed to come here, most days. That's what i'll say, at least. poeticize my reasons for ineffectualism so that no one can argue with it.
I'll get on the train, soon. sit amongst the well-educated business people armed with newspapers & the Ugg-equipped studnets. I'll feel out place there, too--just like every place i go now-- but Hemingway & Dylan will protect me from the small talk. No one will have to know just how terrified i am even to leave my room if i don't have to talk.
* * *
I continually replay these scenes in my head-- from times when i could claim that i was truly happy. They're not so important, really. It just calms me to think of when i wasn't constantly meditating on the issue of my ever-present depression-- to remember when i didn't have to remember when. He loved me, then. & i was sure of the affections of my closest friends, then. It seems to me that's gone, now & all i can do is remember until that-- or something like it-- comes around again.
Christ, i hate the winter.