Some day you’re going to wake up at 5 am, splash some water on your face, rub the bags under your eyes, and stare deeply out of your bedroom window at the trees losing their leaves.
You’ll put on some socks-- if your not already wearing them-- you’ll grab a mug from your kitchen cabinet, or maybe it’s in the dishwasher, and you’ll have a coffee, or a tea… then you’ll read.
On that same day, I’ll wake up lying in the snow-covered grass, naked... no, actually, I’ll be wearing socks... the warmest socks in the world, as a matter of fact.
And I’ll grab a snowball of ice, and I'll hurl it at the window closest to me. And it will curve away from that very window and into the sky, for it’s going back to where it came from; it was never mine to throw.
You’ll be getting ready for the day in the same way you always do: shirt, pants, jacket… you already have your socks on.
You’ve had these socks for 10 years, you think. Only for a moment do you look at their faded colors and the small string tearing from the seams along your ankle.
You remember, you need new socks.
I watch the snowball disappear forever, I feel a bit nostalgic, contemplating about the energy of the morning mist during the spring, when the anticipation of a new encounter left the air smelling sweet;
this was before it began to snow– before the trees danced themselves to sleep and before the air became a biting grey.
You arrive to work and sit at your desk. It has 3 posted notes on it: the pink one tells you to check your email for that draft you were promised, the blue one tells you to reschedule a meeting with James, and the purple one… confuses you.
It says, nice try.
It reminds you of the thoughts that used to circle around at random– wanting certainty, stability and assurance. But you never got any of those, and so, you eventually learned to ignore those thoughts.
You check your email: 5,578 unread messages, 17 junk messages, 3 flagged for future use. You see one from James with the subject head: nice try! You feel a small sting in your stomach. Why do you feel that sting? You wonder. You open the message…
I look into the sky for a moment again, I spread my arms out as wide as I can. I tilt my head back and let the wind whip through my hair. I am a contrast to my environment. I am a silk indigo dripping from an upside down mountain peak. Unrestrained, I always fall back into the soft padding of the naïveté in my soul. My heart retains no residue.
I ripped that leash off of my neck a while ago, and now I love to look at it because it reminds me of a home where I once resided, though still, it is one I will never reside in again.
You and James were playing some sort of game, you cant remember which one. Maybe it was something with trivia. You lost the 5th round. You sigh, a bit relieved. You check your other emails, and eventually eat lunch.
I open my mouth, and I scream out acrylic paint. It splatters onto the dingy buildings and the dirty sidewalks. The images in front of me are not what I expected, they’re a bit sloppy, and for that, I like them more.
Your day is finished at 6pm. You go home. You read again. You think about what you’d rather be thinking about. You remember something stupid from 10 years ago-- when I said you looked like the type of person who might be… hm. What was it that I said, again? You can’t quite recall. All you remember is that dumb smile I had across my whole face. You smile, anyways. You let out a little chuckle; a bit of innocence escapes from your lips. Now you feel dumb for some reason. You look at the clock. It’s 12am. You turn off your bedroom light. Sleep. Finally.
Sometimes I think of myself as a vacuum. My mouth, unreal, like a giant cave. Sucking up false realities and spitting them out into the sea.
I want to spit acrylic paint at midnight. I don’t want to go to sleep.