Boxes
My life contained in a room, or it could seem that way.
A Sunday much too hot to be outside, or inside, or anywhere for that matter. One risked being roasted indoors, and I was already uncomfortable with a headache and with some kind of a flu. I kept my curtains closed until there was no direct sun shining in, but even then the air outside was stifling, suffocating like a pillow robbing one of breath.
A day of nothingness, the simple act of sorting through things - there is so much I seem to have that I don't need. A pile of paperwork that needs to be sifted through, some administrative things to be taken care of. One day.
A lifetime of changes. Here beneath my feet sands shift - and I struggle to hold my balance. Things will be fine, they always turn out okay, one way or another, some time or another.
Some hours of conversation. A reality you can touch if you can reach past the screen. Beyond words, beyond electronic wiring, beyond the flicker of modern wizardry.
And suddenly, the picture is once again clear: the individual voices of friends and acquaintances speaking from their place of comfort (or discomfort) harboured in their own reality. Their lives, too, contained in a room - perhaps even a little like mine.
[Corresponding dandruff flake][Comment?]
07 January 2002, Monday, 5:21 PM
Alter ego of dandruff
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