I can tell time is passing because of the way the sun and shadows pass across my bed; low to the ground and covered in green, almost obscenely comfy. it's the one luxury I'm allowed these days, this bed.
I spend much more time alone lately. the purple room is finally becoming home, filled with my art, my treasures, most of all my books. the shelf is full to bursting with fiction, organized in a way only I can understand. bukowski next to desnos, castaneda and mark twain inhabiting a crowded corner. more than just classics there are the guilty pleasures, outlander, science fiction, the thorn birds. above the mantle between brass horseheads are my biographies, shakespeare, shelley, dostoevsky.
the folk music and the dust motes compliment each other and under the windows my rag-tag little band stands vigilant; the child's guitar with the missing string, the blue ukulele, the borrowed violin. looking over them with an air of superiority the glossy black ibanez, my most prized possession.
I sit alone at night barely making out the words on the pages because the lamps aren't enough light and I can't afford another, a glass of wine balanced and forgotten on the arm of my reading chair.
though it's almost a hundred degrees outside I can feel fall seeping in through the cracks and it affects me in a tangible way. I'm quieter these days, less social. slower to laugh, to act, I think more before I speak. it won't be long until I'm in class again, riding the rickety old bus for 45 minutes each morning to absorb world literature, art history, anthropology.
it's hard to picture the future because the present is so all encompassing, the unanswered phone calls, the questions... above all the longing I feel constantly, the ache in my stomach when I awake from another dream where you are here to another day where you are not.
it's always so obvious the moment I awaken that you are gone, but less because of the empty space beside me and more because I can't even picture you here.
I guess that's not a good sign.
I spend much more time alone lately. the purple room is finally becoming home, filled with my art, my treasures, most of all my books. the shelf is full to bursting with fiction, organized in a way only I can understand. bukowski next to desnos, castaneda and mark twain inhabiting a crowded corner. more than just classics there are the guilty pleasures, outlander, science fiction, the thorn birds. above the mantle between brass horseheads are my biographies, shakespeare, shelley, dostoevsky.
the folk music and the dust motes compliment each other and under the windows my rag-tag little band stands vigilant; the child's guitar with the missing string, the blue ukulele, the borrowed violin. looking over them with an air of superiority the glossy black ibanez, my most prized possession.
I sit alone at night barely making out the words on the pages because the lamps aren't enough light and I can't afford another, a glass of wine balanced and forgotten on the arm of my reading chair.
though it's almost a hundred degrees outside I can feel fall seeping in through the cracks and it affects me in a tangible way. I'm quieter these days, less social. slower to laugh, to act, I think more before I speak. it won't be long until I'm in class again, riding the rickety old bus for 45 minutes each morning to absorb world literature, art history, anthropology.
it's hard to picture the future because the present is so all encompassing, the unanswered phone calls, the questions... above all the longing I feel constantly, the ache in my stomach when I awake from another dream where you are here to another day where you are not.
it's always so obvious the moment I awaken that you are gone, but less because of the empty space beside me and more because I can't even picture you here.
I guess that's not a good sign.
