16-3-28

This text is an old document from when I was trying "morning pages" - writing when I woke up, just whatever came into my head. Sometimes fiction, or just thoughts. This one is from March last year. I always like the typos, so I've left them as they are.

The light pooled at my feet, catlike, and almost purring. The kitchen was a mess, but not the kind of mess that was hideous. The perfect kind of mess, just messy enough to be really satisfying to clean, but not so messy as to make me feel overwhelmed and trapped. I love cleaning up spaces like this. So this Sunday morning, it was my time.

First, I shifted all the bowls and other dishes that needed washing. They got nice and clean and sparkly, dried, and put in their places. Nice. Looking neat already. Then rearranging all the items that have been used and never put back or cleaned up properly. Cleaning coffee stains and flour off the table, and then some dusting and hoovering to get rid of any crumbs and tiny silts of things just resting on the floor. Goodbye, folks. Soon enough the whole kitchen was bright, organised, decluttered, and generally happy-looking. But for one small plant pot I now noticed, upturned between two baskets.

You’re a turnip
In the dark
Unexpected
What I needed
Apparently
But actulal

Got a lot of feelings all turning around in the fan and whizzing back out, sleeping, asliding,
Across the sloep and crying, little rabbits crawlin, not hopping, n

never saw your heart until it poked through your jumper all sharp
sticky sugar crystals in blood red
and the raw onion slices all tumbled to the kitchen floor
and the stinging tears came and shattered
a sticky, acid mess