I wake up and brush my teeth; spots appear on my mirror and drool down in white. Getting ready progresses in this manner: dip my head in the tub and wash hair, put on make-up and Burt’s Bees pomegranate Chap Stick, dry hair, do something with the mess on my head, put on clothes after ironing them on the floor, place a brown hair tie on my wrist.
I then have time to fumble my keys into my backpack, and walk to class. It’s a fifteen minute walk, a walk that I’ve done now for two years from my most recent apartment. Every day I pass the white house that reminds me of Boo Radley, and another white house with a red door and large square windows and a grass drive that I dream of buying: I pass the cat lady’s house; the cat usually watches me walk by. And I watch it. I pass the brick building with blue staircases and a dainty floral pattern on the wall surrounding an open hall; its door is always open, and because that hall reminds me of a small ballroom with its small chandelier, I consider walking/waltzing in, but I never go in. I always see myself reflect in the glass windows on the door, so I suppose, in some way, when the doors are closed, I can see myself standing in that tiled room. I pass that broken bicycle; the one that is rusted, and has had its seat misplaced, and I wonder whose bike it was that suffered such an orange, crusty end?
I stand on corners, my hands tapping against my legs to some song I’m listening to, or They lay between by backpack and back, or they hold the straps of my backpack while I tap my feet or turn them out to balance on the sides of them, waiting, waiting, waiting, for that left green turn light to come on. If it’s raining, I’ll avoid the slick white of the crosswalk, and when it’s cold, I’ll swing my arms quickly, and if it’s warm, I’ll walk slowly, ignoring that flashing red hand urging me to walk faster.
What time is it what time does class start am I late It’s freaking hot out here oh that leaf was pretty there are some people sitting at those picnic tables I want to sit at the picnic tables I could skip class and sit here at the picnic table and write something….
I usually think too many things at one time. I usually stare at the pink bike on the bike rack by the library. And I usually walk awkward down the steps by the library on the way to Spidle until the very last one, then, I manage a little skip down a step or two, down to the road.
Somewhere between Advanced Composition and Nutritional Biochemistry I sit in a corner in the library and read random books I pick up. I’ve thought about leaving little notes in them like: I’m bored. I wish today was tomorrow. I want to be a writer. I love you. I think you’re a hypocrite. Bippety boppety boo. Just whatever pops into my head, I’ve thought about scribbling it into the library books. I haven’t done this yet, but I’m seriously considering it. Just starting an anonymous journal in those stacks that some random person will read, who knows, maybe they’ll add a little something.
Sometimes I do sit outside at a picnic table. A random hawk appears from time to time in a big tree, and blue jays and cardinals are pretty entertaining to watch, especially blue jays, they do some really weird stuff when they’re looking for food. I like to watch the people getting on and off the transits. Basically, I think I just like sitting there and watching. When you’re watching it’s like you don’t exist. You’re just a table, or a sidewalk, or a random pole that’s just watching everything go by without even considering to think about it, or wonder over it, you just want to watch it. So, I guess, sometimes I’m that table on that hill where I sit, until I decide to peal my eyes away and become a good ole fashioned human again.
I walk home, really slowly. If it’s cold, my nose and cheeks will be pink when I get back to my apartment. If it’s hot, my face will look flushed and my hair will try to go to its natural waves. I hum. I pass Walt, my favorite person on campus, and I don’t even know the man or his name, Walt just seems to suit him. I laugh under my breath at little things that don’t belong like beer bottles in front of Cat Lady’s house or blooming flowers when it’s freezing or a singing mockingbird on a cloudy, rainy day. Those things are my favorite. I’m not sure why, but they are; the little unexpected things, the things that save me- in some way-during the week, those things are my favorite.
Before I go to bed, I like to think about everything. really, everything. If it exists, I might have thought about it. And I like to watch the lights from cars move across my room while I think. Thinking so much isn't good though, because it steals the time away, until I'm still awake at 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning because I've been thinking for 2 hours.
And then, right before I go to bed, before I slip into dreams where my thinking is turned into beautiful places and ideas and the most absurd things I've ever seen...I wonder if I'll ever be a real writer. I wonder if I really do talk too much, and if so, how do I prevent it from happening again. I wonder when I'll go overseas again. I wonder who will love me. I wonder what God looks like. I wonder what the stars look like outside..and sometimes, I actually walk over to my window to look, and see just one, so then I'll go back to bed. And finally, I'll either be completley content with life that night, or I'll wish something about it or me were different, but either way, I still fall asleep, and I'll still wake up, and somehow, every morning, I'm still just me. And there's something beautiful about that, I suppose. At least, I know who I am.
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