139. just one word.


I woke up too early. And suddenly I’m back in a red metal bunkbed, watching the light grow brighter in my room. It’s early early morning and some terrible shock jolted me out of bed, but nothing is wrong, everything is quiet and the streets are fine. I think about getting up to find the snuggly cat, Misery, or quietly sitting with Sable, the skittish one. My sensible eight, nine year old self decides that that’d only make my feet cold, going anywhere. I watch the lights instead. They never gradually brighten, in my eyes. They flicker, pulsing brighter and brighter slowly, until finally it’s light. I always thought of it of plants, as moving slowly slowly so no one ever saw you move, until you finally arrived. And then they’re all terribly surprised. Then it’s light out, and I go down the flight of stairs, and I can’t clearly remember much after that, but Grandma Elka had died that morning. She was fifty-seven. And now I’m older and Uncle George is gone, Grandpa Jack and Aunt Bobbie, and some were older and some were young. I remember listening to my sister’s frantic phonecall, collapsing into my roomates arms after hanging up. I remember waking up and hearing he “nothings wrong voice”

It isn’t a death feeling, this loneliness. It’s a tea feeling. It’s being awake with no one around, the last one wake after the house falls asleep, the only one who seems to be unable to focus on the teacher’s lecture, glancing at the rapt faces instead of the topic.

The lights were flickering into being again this morning. I felt so powerfully alone that I wanted to cry, but that’d be useless, so I fell back into dreams that were passionate and fiery and scary but wonderfully offbeat. And I like the loneliness, sometimes, but too much and I need to leave it be.

That’s the kind of smell that wafts through the air. When I read the Wasteland, when I listen to a song, and that desolate feeling creeps into my head. It’s not scary. It’s quite quiet. It’s there, and will slip away without insult if you ask it to leave, nicely. I think it needs to be around people, sometimes. Maybe it gets lonely too.

In other news, the postman delivered our packaged to the wrong house. The lady was kinda and knows us, and called us down. Her dog ran from us and there are coyotes rooming the streets again. I got Dexter and pens and a fountain pen and strangely detailed erasers. I am a firm believer in retail therapy.


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