Ramblings

The mornings are getting colder. I can only leave a mere sliver of window open, and it's difficult to get out of bed. In the bathroom, the risers behind the wall heat up the postcards that hang there; I get warm and don't put on enough clothes before I get out.

I sit on the Uptown 1 train all the way through midtown to the upper west. As suits come on and get off, I spend time with Sylvia. Her words paint such a familiar picture to me, of reclusive worlds where darkness is comforting and psychotic breakthroughs always are close at hand. It is, somehow, comforting. Deep in my gut, something stirs.

But then, I find that I am too far removed from it; I cannot connect. I fear the enveloping soft gray blanket of despair, because I remember how it devours me whole. And yet I miss it, the familiarity of that same blanket being one in which I may wrap myself and relax: things are as they must be.

Happiness, so boring in the end.