small pieces of paper
I buy myself journals. A justifiable purchase because I am a writer, I tell myself. I haven’t written a damn thing in over a year, but I still buy myself journals. I am not hasty about it either. I don’t see a nice cover and buy on impulse. I am not an impulse shopper. I look through the journal sections of every bookstore. I carefully inspect. I fan the pages; I knead the cover. I pick them up and put them back down. I go home empty handed. Then one day, I find myself staring into myself, in the cover of a leather bound, a velvet bound, a paper bound, journal. I make the purchase. I think about what I will write. I open the cover and bend the spine; I press my palm into the first page. The tip of my pen meets the paper.
I never write in my journals. They sit on my bookcase next to the books I haven’t read. They lie face down on the shelf beside my bed and get knocked over every time I reach for my glasses. I fret over every shape, line, and letter against the page. I think, but only about nothing. My journals are empty.
Since I have moved, I finally find myself thinking about something other than nothing. I think all the time. I jot notes to myself on small pieces of paper to avoid the stress of losing the only thoughts I think I will ever have. I am terrified I will stop thinking. I still come home and walk by my empty journals. I still knock them over every night as I put my glasses down.
people as ions
i left the library at 10:42 PM. that makes for a full day of chemistry. at times, i blatantly stop paying attention, and i think about how people are kind of like ions. i wonder if there is some force guiding our intereactions as intermolcular forces govern ions. i think about order in chaos, the familiar strangers i see in routine, the random lights on in the windows of my apartment building at night. mostly I hear that Weezer song that talks about molecules of oxygen and carbon dioxide (i think its called only in dreams) play over and over in my head every time I see the words oxygen and ccarbon dioxide.
my mind is clearer than it has been in a long time. i walked home alone for the first time tonight. it was raining. the road crunched and squeaked beneath my sneakers. i felt it a grand occasion. i even let my pant legs get wet. i hate that. even more, the canvas of my converse slouched over the rubber, and the insides of my feet got wet. i decided, for the first time in my life, it only meant i could look forward to the warm cup of tea i would have at home.
it’s amazing how quickly strangers become familiar. i see the same people all the time. sometimes we pass each other on the street, sometimes we get off on the same stop, sometimes we get on together, but we never show recognition, at least not of each other. sometimes we share a look of similar thought, usually about transportation. at night there are usually some seedy people on the subway, those prone to talking. anyone who talks is seedy. i listen to their stories and make judgments about their lives. i have never had such an experience as here. i am constantly alone, yet constantly surrounded- literally. it opens windows into other worlds. It hasn’t taken me long to become exceedingly observant, if for nothing else but to excite my curiosity. i see things i’m not supposed to. i hear things i shouldn’t have. i am bombarded by humanity.
it's 4 AM and I'm listening to a room full of chain smokers,
wondering why.
I don’t smoke,
but the sound of
a cigarette
pressed hard against wet lips,
swelling,
contracting, expanding at the folds
between the shapely mold
squeezed to fit
each that’s lit,
draws me in.
we listen like shapes
of clouds.
wide. distributed.
barely made out,
recognized at best.
in context
cold tea is sipped
warm,
great ideas are broad
ceramic cups,
and hot air is all that’s needed to
fill you up.
lost and gone forever
i once read in my social psych book that anonymity is a dangerous thing. if people feel too anonymous, they are tempted to do things they wouldn't normally do, merely because they can get away with it. this might seem absurd, but when the realization of total anonymity actually struck me, the freedom was overwhelming. i formulated a list of things I will do now that i am anonymous. this list (which i never actually recorded- just entertained in my mind as i picked out my groceries) was exhilarating, and the thought of being a prime example right out of a social psych book was mildly tempting. I felt slightly loon walking around the market with this huge, knowing smile on my face.
it wasn't until the walk home I realized the repercussions of this anonymity. it's not that i
can disappear in the crowd. it's that i
already have.
