142. I wish I could have seized that day and torn it from your history.


The Story, Jonatha Brooke and Jennifer Kimble = all I can listen to. Songs about a black dancer in apartheid South Africa, a princess swimming naked in the waves, free, and e.e. cummings poem set to music, a gilded cage, soulsongs set to template, and oh. goodnight, mind.

I can’t focus on Kate Chopin in English. I read about the foam and the freedom and know and feel and Plath and Chopin in a row is pushing it a bit. Feminism! We are females, watch us destroy ourselves against society! I live in obscurity after my novel dies, I die in an oven after writing of my healing. I want to read trashy novel with laugh-out-loud bits and very little thought involved, no empathy required. But, that’s only in school. Once at home, I can read and wonder and freely fall into the book. In school, it becomes real for a moment, more real than when I live inside it. Basketball couch, an old folk singer’s words about “sorry” come into my head, the automatic response that would get you a lap or ten around the court. A word trained and expected, but that’s just the girlpower rant, isn’t it. (At least I didn’t shank him accidentally. Apology justified.)

I am mature and wise in cartoon pyjama bottoms and having just watched Little Nemo, Adventures in Slumberland. I am calm and soothed and the restless seed is only because it’s late enough to be early. Thoughts are moving independent of sleepy eyes, and the ceiling is speaking to me in hieroglyphs. Possibly my favorite part of the night.

It’s been eleven months, firefly. I wonder I wonder, is love more thicker than forget?


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