Love Bubble

It’s seems to me that being in love would be nice.

Sure, I have a strongly slanted and naïve perception on the whole matter because my love lust has been the outcome of meeting fictional protagonist like Mr. Darcy, Michael Hosea, and Robbie Turner. Though, I must say, Robbie Turner is my personal favorite. It’s the whole well-read, quiet thoughtful type thing.

Anyway, I was attempting to go to bed, and I kept reliving the whole day:

 Late for class on the account of Auburn’s dramatic C zone parking makeover, the 3 hours of statistics (called “sadistic” by myself), the realization that my desired 4.0 may have to be sacrificed on “sadistic’s” account, the hour of college politics at a campus meeting, the need to join more committees when I’m already doing too much as it is, wondering if the intrigue editor at The Plainsman is still laughing under her breath at my nutrition article attempt, the yellow check engine light coming on in my car as I’m leaving campus, and of course, the thought occurred to me last night that after orientation at the clinic today,  I’d be walking, not driving, the thirty five minutes home in a cardigan and unforgiving humidity.

Previous to pillow thinking time, I had ordered Jimmie Johns and tried to really lose myself in the chocolate chip cookie, but I only ate half, and then I ran a mile listening to “angry songs” by Avril Lavigne in an attempt to give myself an outlet. Not so successful.

I took a bath and read Atonement, and felt similar to Robbie up to some point, and then he’d talk about getting married and having babies with Cecilia, and he totally lost me. That is a comforting thought that I don’t know yet.

It was time to escape from the no good, very bad, day. But sleep didn’t come. It’s like the day was some hiccup stuck in my chest …lodged there, and with it, the reoccuring thought of, "what am I doing here?" And turning on my side, I figured that being in love would be a nice thing: to have a horrible day, for someone to witness it, and at the end, to pull you in, their arm on your hip.

The world out there, you in here, in your love bubble.

Your world out there is just the motion you go through every day to get here; the world in here is what really matters. The parking chaos, the dying car, the pointless debates, that evil class, the cardigan and humidity…none of that really matters, and with that hand on your hip, I wonder if it’s easier to remember.

Feel safe, know your life was witnessed, and then close your eyes and sleep.