Apr 15, 2010

Little bugs that look like little commas and periods are dancing around in crazy little orbits outside my pretty little window. Crazed, they are floating collectively all upwards and away. Onward. They don't have to write the PSYC 100 exam today. I don't either. Does that justify yoga by the lake, or a really long sit, or an extra slow morning in bed? Do the bugs feel stress? Do the bugs feel?
My carpet is assorted with little things. Our rectangular piece of earth has been a closed door to so many different people, so many combinations of people too. People have thrown up in here. Urinated in here. Snorted cocaine off of one the desks, allegedly. Fucked on this bed. Every September, every standard item goes through a Renaissance. One that is less physical but more important and interesting than a Windex wide down.
There, over there, lies a laundry basket with laundry that is actually getting done for once, and not by force. By will. Something changed over there; internally. A leather computer chair, probably imported from Tanzania. It's so nice looking that if you listen closely, you can hear the damned thing Moo! There is a Tide box that is not tucked under that bed that has no sheets. Just the hospital-white covering. Some insignificant material that never gets noticed. Well, noticed, but never really seen or felt. There are fluorescent t-shirts and bathing suit bottoms worn months ago, to some Beach Slam Spectacular themed party at a bar that practically swims with underagers touching stomachs and feeling around each others back pockets, deaf from the bass. There is a big blue bin filled with foods that apparently don't contribute to some sort of Freshman 15, even though he doesn't run. Metabolism, speedy fast? Ok.
There is the popular t-shirt, the multiple-use face cloth, a printer that was used about ten times all year, actually, and some other little junk things.
On my diagonal there are cords and shower shoes and a garbage bin. The space of the 6th floor supporting the bed, supporting blankets, supporting me, Supporting Myself. With an ankle that aches from overexertion, and a brain that is trying to absorb.

1 comment:

  1. loved reading this while knowing this place.

    ReplyDelete