Boxes

There was a haze which hung between the trees like some bride's forgotten veil, even some time past midday. It didn't help that I don't seem to know which world I am in.

I see strange things, I notice strange things. Strange definite shadows of the legs of tables, strange how it curves and runs away from light. It has been raining leaves but they are not all golden and they are not all soft. The beauty of the fall is not accompanied by the fade of the forgotten fallen.

I hear no sound, and when there is sound it seems unearthly. The birds are outside the window where I can't see, but they chirp about autumn mornings when I clean my teeth.

I hear no words, and herein itself is troubling. They steal like shadows, if shadows could be stolen, they meld and fuse and tangle and dissolve into legs of chairs, legs of tables, corners of streets, fingers of branches spread across octaves.

The grass is browning underfoot, defying oven logic but the season is changing or has changed, and maybe I just haven't noticed.

I feel like a bottle of tears. They were talking about bottles of milk and I'm wondering if my consistent latte drinking has been a cause for nausea, or perhaps I've been poisoning myself with art.

My house is a box and it contains boxes. I'm not convinced I am looking at all of them on the same plane. My home is not here. My home is where the music is.

"Does it seem like you are waiting?" he said - it wasn't quite a question.

"Yes," I said.

But there is no logic to it and I do not know why I look for reasons so perhaps therein lies the shadows of the other boxes which I thought I lost.

17 April 2002, Wednesday, 3:48 PM

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Alter ego of dandruff

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