Good morning. The air is luscious and there are three beds in the apartment. One ultra soft, one absurdly firm at first touch, and one sort of normal. A true Goldilocks type situation. I am in a haze, just filled with that deep, utter exhaustion that comes after long flights or arguments. I am sunk into my own cloudy mind and it feels small in here in a way that I always enjoy. Like a feathery pillow is all around my thoughts, a cushion on each wall. And I think it’s funny, by the way, to imagine my head as a room. It makes me think of BBC Sherlock’s iconic mind palace, but his seemed far too active. There is no wooshing around this room. This room is about chilling, and lying down. It’s nice.
There are golden geometric patterns on the curtains, a series of connected cubes on royal blue. It’s very “showroom” somehow, but I like the way the dim, warm lamplight reflects against those lines of gold, making it seem thicker and brighter in some places, like when more ink comes out of a pen.
I got up ravenous earlier, and ate cold Domino’s cheesy bread. God’s own delicious bounty. Eating that, covering myself with a soft blue blanket, knowing the air outside is cool, but too crisp. These are the things to love with a half dormant brain, on a sweet January Wednesday.
Later I will watch a movie and wake up and rest my journal on my lap, compare the uneven pencils and draw myself and all the animals with long necks. Giraffes, llamas, pelicans. It’s a pretty day full of nothing.
Let it last forever.
*
It’s almost 11am, and I’m hungry. Why is it that hunger feels like a little animal biting your insides? I want to learn everything, every word stored neatly in my head, on dark mahogany shelves, organised alphabetically and shaped like swirling galaxies, twinkling in soft purples like a field of lilacs growing in an endless black lake.
You can get these microwavable breakfast sandwiches, croissant style with bacon and eggs. It’s sort of disgusting, and the directions tell you to wrap a paper towel around it when you heat it up. I think of Victorian children surveying this great marvel of technology. We are preserving too much. Nothing is perishable. I stuff a salty nugget of bacon into my mouth. It’s good. The Victorian children in my mind scramble for a morsel. I don’t let them have it. It’s all mine. I’m alive, after all, and a fully grown woman. Life should be warm, delicious, and a little bit disgusting for me.
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| Bags. |
I uninstalled tiktok this morning. I choose not to hear anything more about Ethan Slater, and his ragged face, a cooked Illumination Studios character. I’m not doing it. I can read or force myself to study more. I’m not hearing any other girls’ sad dating stories or skincare recommendations or endless two word style terms that describe nothing. It pisses me off. I’d rather cry a little pool into my pillow. I’d rather stare out the window, clean the sink. I’d rather do anything.
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