i will never grow up from this fear of missed moments, lost conversations, the words left unread. a friend once told me of an art installation in san-francisco where matchmaking questions were painted on sidewalks so the city-dwellers could purpose their routes (or routes) and find the destination of each other. but my blank corners are question marks and direction is always decision. for the times we find our faces, we must have so many near misses but all our parallels are hidden by concrete & steel. so i paste the scraps of my wonderings to these paths and i am mindful of my way. my half-hopes seem will enough to bring you near, i always discover the ones i am thinking.
this week, everyone seems tethered to school except me. i do have midterms and also papers (american dime novels, the essence of gold) but only in incidental ways. i clutch the periphery of my life as a blanket -- open books swirl round my room, post-library evenings are for adventuring, my empty days filled with yoga classes and café lunches. time is just make-believe.
everything is pumpkin-scented and damp with the rain. when i walk up the stairs home, there is such warmth in this place. now, i'm listening to the skylight storm and reading my grandmother's copy of 'the search after hapiness'. (august 10,1972 haworth - from the bookshop which was the drugstore where branwell bought his opium...) the sun has disappeared from this afternoon's sky. there are torn silk scarves, lengths of ribbon, cardigans, pens and books of poetry strewn across my careful bed.
i'm going to have tea and go see great aunt ida! loves, i wish you luck.
this week, everyone seems tethered to school except me. i do have midterms and also papers (american dime novels, the essence of gold) but only in incidental ways. i clutch the periphery of my life as a blanket -- open books swirl round my room, post-library evenings are for adventuring, my empty days filled with yoga classes and café lunches. time is just make-believe.
everything is pumpkin-scented and damp with the rain. when i walk up the stairs home, there is such warmth in this place. now, i'm listening to the skylight storm and reading my grandmother's copy of 'the search after hapiness'. (august 10,1972 haworth - from the bookshop which was the drugstore where branwell bought his opium...) the sun has disappeared from this afternoon's sky. there are torn silk scarves, lengths of ribbon, cardigans, pens and books of poetry strewn across my careful bed.
i'm going to have tea and go see great aunt ida! loves, i wish you luck.
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