Letter

I wake confused, unfamiliar with the bed and with the darkness, the street sweeper passes by and I don't understand the calendar. Last night we sat outside a dive bar on Tompkins and everything about New York is changing but feels familiar. We said, I feel strangely nostalgic for the quarantine life in unison, and it seemed a forbidden sentence to speak out loud. I fear this year leaves us irreparably damaged, but then anything in life has the power to break us. It's on us to find the power to put ourselves back together again. Yesterday I sat at the typewriter again, so long absent, and remembered that I build myself through ink on pages, every time, one curled letter after another, this is how I make my self make sense.

The days are long and short all at once, the life rapidly racing towards inevitable ends, there's an answer in there somewhere and you are so determined to find it. 

The streets are quiet in the mornings now. Summer drapes its hazy perspective across the avenues, across the pandemic children emerging from their hideouts. What a strange and wondrous life, after all. 

And perhaps, that's the answer entirely.