But that doesn't mean I'm writingless.
I'm sitting here staring and my apartment gradually losing it's sense of home, as if each pile of clothes or old examination books hold some personally-concealed magical aptitudes. The best part of relocation is the inventiveness and fresh outlook it brings. Finding things you once forgot about feels almost like Christmas, anxiously seeking the next gift addressed in your name. I pulled out several pictures of memories I seem to have forgotten, along with my favorite zebra costume, tail included.
An old book lies to my right, and bare shelves harbor me overhead. Post-it notes reflecting archaic remembrances lie in the most uncanny and remote residencies. Like an unkempt garden, dried flowers still seem to maintain their enchantment and romanticism as I carefully pack them away into an over-sized shoe box. I gently pick up a leaf that elegantly fell to the floor. I hold on to it desperately and shut my eyes tight, hoping some paranormal event will transpire. I don't feel like myself. I don't feel much of anything.I have a kitten waiting for me, and a good friend. I have a life in the future, and the more I think of it, I have a life in the present. I just have to convince myself that, no matter how bolstering and secure it may be, my comforter can only be exhausted as a shelter for so long.
2 Corinthians 1:6,
CourtReplies
No comments:
Post a Comment