(no subject)
Last night we were tired and in pain, but happy. My room now lit by a constellation of white christmas lights draped casually over floor and furniture. The light is warm and orange somehow, like the room is filled with a swarm of tiny winged fireplaces, drifting about above our heads in a ballet of 3 am laziness. Leo says "tell me a story" and immediately I am lost. My life is made of anticdotes, strung together in a sequence that means nothing. No stories to be told or created. So I find myself constantly stringing words together with no attempt at narrative. Not so much a problem in itself as it is a disheartening metaphor for the rest of my life. There you have it. My epiphany for the day. I've been sick for about a month I think. I can't really remember. Coughing and congested and exhausted has come to be my optimum status. I think about seeing a doctor, but somehow it just doesn't make any sense. I don't know why. Self maintenance is not a strong area for me. My room looks like a refugee camp for a persecuted race of garbage. It knows it is safe here. Torn envelopes and old bus transfers and paper bags and torn pieces of paper with obsolete notes scribbled on them can languish safely on the paradise of my floor and shelves forever, in no dnager of ever being thrown away. Brave refuse, I give you sanctuary.
Let's all just agree that it's going to be okay and leave it at that. I have to go now.
Let's all just agree that it's going to be okay and leave it at that. I have to go now.