Circadian

I have trouble going to sleep lately. I stay up late writing terrible drivel, as the lights of the courtyard go out one by one. Watch the full moon climb across the top of my window. Sleep heavy sleeps at last, dreaming of summer sun and bare skin but I miss my alarm and drag myself heavy out of bed in the late morning. I walked home from 35th street last night and the winter wind is so mild up there amidst the never-fading lights and buffering sky skrapers.

A package came from my mother yesterday: the winter clothes and trinkets that didn't fit in my suitcase when I first arrived. What a treasure trove of a box, a reminder that there was more to me than the few folds of laundry currently placed in my drawers. There is more to me than the few details revealed in a month of New York. We are built of more stories than can fit in a resume, or a first date. I am perpetually proving myself.

Perhaps if I write enough ridiculous pages,
at some point the real story
will show.