Monday Mourning

I awoke again with the sun streaming on my face, expecting the hour to be late but finding it early. Remembering my state upon falling asleep, realizing I was still in it. Never go to bed angry. I'm not angry. I've just been made aware.

The hours pass; I struggle to find the motivation to shower, dress, sort through emails and structure to-do lists. Orphan Puppy falls asleep along my leg. My roommate speaks and I do not hear, my head wrapped in cotton, my heart, my soul, my mind. I have bubble-wrapped myself in preparation for impact. We've been down this road before. Routine will pack your bags, routine will soften your blow.

Scars grow thicker with every gash. I forgot how to feel, a long time ago.

Sleepless

Too many
words
not enough
tired

tossing
back
and forth
in such
a
narrow bed

It all seems
so
rose-colored
zen
but you mustn't
believe
everything you
read
I am
much
more lost
and dizzy

than I let on.

Hung Over

I walked that same meandering walk through the Lower East Side back home to Morton Street, a reassuring voice in my ear and an evening full of cocktails in my veins. The New York night so familiar, so comfortable. I forget to stop and smell the magic.

There are so many things to say. To digest, to reword, to regurgitate. Make sense of the madness and make note, for future use. But I do not. The words escape my paper and float effortlessly away in the breeze. I will be left dumbfounded, one day when I need their ink in my eyes. I'll be surprised, and have no one to blame but myself.

Time flies too quick. I run too slow. We will be caught up, much too soon.

Clean Sweep

And so it begins. The excrutiating, liberating cleaning out of the closets, the drawers, the piles of Life that amassed in the last few years. My cuts are brutal, weighing attachment to that skirt against the precious space in my suitcase, the future that lies ahead. Here it is again, the chance to shed skin, renew, reinvent. What lies in that suitcase when it rolls onto the carousel will represent my life in the coming however-long, will be the paint on my blank canvas in whatever lies around the corner. Who do you want to be? This is the time to pick your person.

We are who we always were. I run off into brighter futures, always running, always forward, always believing the next turn will be better, will be an adventure worth whatever I leave behind. I don't look back to see what I lost in the race.

My heart is too frail, to know.

In the Beginning

journal excerpt
July 10, 2009

Dinner on the rooftop w/my 2 roomies, looking at the Manhattan skyline, and a bottle of wine. Talking and realizing again why you moved here, and that you are, in fact, here.

That the restlessness in peoples' dissatisfaction stirs little in you. Because coming to New York was the goal, the one true thing that made your heart ache, and now you are here.

Everything is Possible, now.

On Youth

I arrange my computer on the table in that corner window, spend my day staring into the neighbors' townhouse. Work streams out of the screen, I feel my eyes turn inside out as I forget to get up, forget to eat, forget to break. Youtube unwinds its playlist, and I lose myself in lyrical twists and turns, as I translate complicated geological statements about lava composition.

Later, I sort through the days progress, I find a document that was not there before. In the midst of interpreting someone else's words, somehow my own had snuck in to the soup.

What good is my life, if I do not put words to it? What use was all the anguish, if nothing more came out of it than this complacent heap? How do I get my cookie, eat it, and purge its evils out of my gut? What good, is my life, without words?

Lately

If you walk out on me
I'm walking after

You've got to promise
not to stop
when I say
When.