A Home

Morning arrives with a sledgehammer, I remember declaring that Bourbon season is here! but did it have to be so drastic about it? Daylight seeps in through the window like a needle: sharp, and not what you want boring into your eyes. I attempt standing, but fail. I attempt eating, but seem to have forgotten how it's done in the first place. Valuable minutes fall from my open hands, my heavy body falls into piles, I try to meditate but forget my own name, forget how to breathe it into my spine. The words we used in the bourbon bath were big, were unavoidable, I always had a terrible poker face but at least sometimes I could manage to lie to myself. We ordered another round long after I knew we shouldn't, and still how being seen, if only for a moment, is worth the pummeling that comes after.

When the fog lifted, at last, how brand new the city seemed. The skies cleared, the ideas arranged themselves. He called to say it is fall now and it is beautiful, and I wanted to tell him all the answers that had lined themselves up inside my skull when the sunlight turned to hope on my eyelids, but it wasn't time, yet.

And maybe it isn't even about the answers at all, but about the path you take to reach them. Maybe the journey is the destination, maybe you've already made the choices, they're just less scary if you can't quite gauge their size when you take them home and bring them through the front door. How you spend your days is how you live your life. Just one more dive and it won't be cold, anymore.