Roommates cycle in and out, suddenly the apartment lies quiet again, the long weekend spreading out in solitude and silence. Even the dog has left. I eye a calendar, full of sprawling notes, errands, potential, and wonder what would happen if I just crossed them all out. Erase their demands on my time, shut the door, pretend there is nothing but the silence and the page. (Maybe I'm the one who can decide there isn't.)
I woke up this morning and for the first time in I don't know how long, consciousness wasn't immediately followed by a crushing weight of the world on my chest. I woke only to find piles of paper in my bed, remembered words in my blood stream, how I had stepped into the river and how fine the water always is in there.
There's a magic still floating around this town, this life, we forget so often and busy ourselves with tickertape and mortgages. Charles Bukowski sits on my shoulder, a manic pixie dream girl behind his eyes and a drink in his hand. I toss the calendar aside, lock the door.
Summer ends. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Watch the ashes around your feet
simply blow away.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment