I have two existences. One was honey-colored walls and sunshine spots. The other was edges and sage carpet. One was bread on the countertops, and the other was sweet potato lasagna. One was fraternizing with the Lost Boys, and the other was building a cottage and a garden. One was slamming wooden doors, and the other was running off to the field. One was being, and one was growing.
And then, there’s now.
It’s not an existence; it’s a means to an end.
That’s the dead part of my heart talking. That fucker has been loud lately.
But, here I am, at a cafe, drinking tea and wearing my glasses. Quiet, I am now. Quiet, in the good way.
This morning, in the shower, I was thinking about breaking through. A piece of corn under the fridge. “I AM a Christian!” (that one time I figured out how the hot water worked). A bizarre little worm. Anything.
That would be great.
That would be so great.
But, for now, I guess I’m gonna sit here, and drink my earl grey, and look at those four granules of sugar somehow arranged in a perfect line, and think about my eighth-grade math teacher, and the best friend I had back then. Back then, I never thought that would be something that I’d remember–those odd, incomplete moments that make up an existence.
Okay. Relax, child of my heart. I am living idiotic-ly and passive-aggressive-ly and not finished-ly.
And that’s just fine.