the room is constantly filled with light yet my skin darkens, my eyes adjust. i follow a quiet rhythm that mirrors the waves, or the wind on the waves. begonias cast fuchsia shadows against white walls. i do not have anything to say. there is no noise and no one to block the view, but i know i will see you soon.
drinking black coffee
i drink black coffee. i never specify that it is an americano, but it usually is, unless it is my morning coffee, in which case it is an aeropressed coffee. it is unlikely that i am drinking my morning coffee though, as i rarely write when i drink that particular coffee—my mind is mostly in a fog, and it can only be lifted once the coffee has been absorbed.
breaking a nail
i break a nail. i keep my nails long and pointed, and though they are strong and seldom brittle, i break one every now and then, usually while doing laundry. when i break a nail, as i did today while flipping over wet clothes in a red basket, i make a note of it because i can feel it. the broken nail is perceptible and unavoidable, most notably when i pick up my pen.
inking paper
i blacken pages. i write about turning blank pages into a mess of sentences and trading one emptiness for another, as i enjoy seeing white lines morph into something dark, no matter how irrelevant the words. the blackening of pages is a process of deliverance, one that is further accelerated upon disclosure. three more words. two more lines. this entire paragraph stained a quarter of a page, and i may have just become a little lighter.
observing through windows or doors
i never have my back against the door nor the windows—i feel hemmed in and anxious if i cannot see what is happening in front of me. i need to observe what is going on outside, but also inside and in the doorway. i am invested in the ins and the outs of the stretch of street and room i temporarily call my own. most of what i reveal unfolds before my eyes, and from these moments, i conjure more moments. it is always easier when i can see what lies ahead.
time
because every time i pick up my pen, it is no longer the moment when i last picked it up, and how strange and disquieting that is.
and it goes on, whether or not we participate in it.
the car stops in front of the door and the people in the car look at the woman inside.
the woman sits in front of a black coffee and wishes she was just a little less than what she is now.
coffee, wall, door, sidewalk, car, noise, saturday, meat (not meat).
the car drives away.
ashes float and land on the table but they are not hers. if she still smoked she would keep the cigarette near her like an ally and let the ashes fall to the ground where they belong.
she misses being treated poorly sometimes. that is why she is constantly looking for his faults.
i am talking to a wall. the wall is cracked, covered with chipped paint and mysterious indents. it has been standing there a while, waiting, aging. the wall is a shade of grey or blue, or grey-blue, the colour of clouds before a mid-week summer storm. if i look closely, i can see traces of fingertips left behind on the fractures. who left them there, the wall would not tell me. the wall says he does not remember how they got there, though it is hard for me to believe him when i know the wall has ears if not eyes, and the wall never forgot a single word i said.
i walk by the shells, and my feet turn black. the more i walk alongside them, the more dirt i gather. the soles of my feet are white, but the exposed surfaces are covered in soot. the streets leave a mark on my feet, and my skin shows the sign of time the way my muscles cannot. i am older to this city. i walk by the shells, and i hear the sound of my skin breaking as the second half of the course unfolds at my feet.