we drive home
bound with the windows
down carrying bags of tea that smell like
Christmas, flecked with
ginger, decked in lights
pass by billboards for
fidget spinners &
a bridge that reminds me of beyond two
souls & a school with the sign that reads “meet the Teachers night”
lo que sera, sera means what will be
will be, fate that’s putty in the
hands of what we can’t see
The leaves fell and temperatures dipped 20 degrees overnight. Fall. A season in flux. The weather’s nice, albeit confusing;bit of sun and it’s sweltering hot, patch of shade and it’s shivery-cool.
I’m so basic, I’m getting the pumpkin spice coffee. I’m so basic. The girl in front of me says this four times to her friends while we’re all getting coffee. She is–and I look up to see just who is just so basic–decked out in basic fall dress, basic orange scarf and basic boots and all. Oranges, yellows. Except it’s grey and murky outside today.
The cold make me nostalgic. Tunnels me into a tube of miss, insomnia and memory woven together. Heavy rope. Haven’t felt this way in a while. It’s familiar, muted. Nowadays, when I can’t sleep, in lieu of curling up angrily around air, I’ll send out the insomniac’s frustrated 3 AM snap: I can’t sleep, and the streets are so loud.
time-wrapped memory hangs suspended in the grainy unchanging film of
twilight, defined: a state of obscurity, of gradual decline, of soft rays / scattered light
when I close my eyes I see the flitting wings of a moth, its luminous wings bleeding light
is dividing the number zero is a
forgotten cigarette in between two slabs of sidewalk is a
depressed piece of cotton in the bottom of your
medicine drawer is the
fog on mornings when my mother hasn’t read where the wild things are to me is a
fishing boat with cracks in the fiberglass is
our bleary-eyed round-table exercise in creative writing (october 3rd 2017)
We went around and talked shared tiredness in metaphors. Some metaphors were poignant, others contradictory (“My tiredness is the sun that warms you”). The girl next to me described her tiredness like an unrelenting wind and it seemed angry, and the girl across from me, who said the story-less fog one, seemed sad. So many forms of tiredness, all stewing in our slow misshapen circle.
There are few things in the world as cathartic as 6-hour long conversations with good friends.
So here’s to a sense of identity, to men who shoot down the moon because their beloved drank from vials of morality. To figuring out what it is that imprisons us—the future? loci of control? the internalization of social pressures? To values and meaning, valuing meaning.
Here’s to dreaming of one day becoming the security guard who stands on his bike at 1 in the morning as he glides down the bridge.
“What are you doing?”
“Figuring out what imprisons us.”
(and other things unsaid)
Here’s to finding yourself and the right words.
Wherever I go, I’ll always return
Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results; Freud theorizes that we all harbor some childhood wound we’re all seeking to recreate. Mistake one, mistake two, mistake three, mistake four. But four wasn’t insanity. And four wasn’t an old wound. Four was, instead, ironically, cheesily, gradually then all at once, one of the best things to happen. A summery wish granted, a wintry curiosity piqued: reflections in the water (I did it again I did it again I did it again)