And here we are. Things remain in piles, only more so than ever. Things are exposed. They're breathing. There's a stunning arrangement of clothes hangers on my carpet. They range from white metal to golden metal to blue plastic to white and brown plastics. Accompanying the piece is a big sweater, laying on another one that I cannot recognize in its shadowy placement. In three days at this time, nine five seven, I'll be either playing board games in the cafe in the basement of my residence building, or watching an indoor movie at the Auditorium, snacks provided, or playing ultimate game indoor sports at Tindall Field Physical Education Centre, being encouraged to remember a water bottle. After midnight, after 1, after 2, 3, I'll be in a new room. Will I obtain this sense of contentment that I've built these past 6 or 7 years here, in 8 months time? Will it be okay?
Sep 3, 2009
The sound of this bread maker. The texture of the fresh blanket. The beautiful emptiness and fullness of my room at the same time. The purple swish of this singer's vocals. The fact that the windows are open solely for the sound, cause the temperature doesn't really exist, and because there is no movement in the air, only murmurs. Petite palpitations. Like on the moon. A fresh baby's movements. I've decided that the volume isn't needed low, nor heightened. My arms continually stick to my faux wooden desk that I assembled alone.