Ashes
The rain falls everywhere. It falls at my feet as I walk home, splashing the pavement with diluted grey, and suddenly, it occurs to me that the rain falls equally on roofs, on cars, on people, on my balcony on the 12th floor of this perhaps-once-hotel. The rain falls at all heights and it falls everywhere. The rain does not discriminate.
Yet just this morning as I was walking to work, the lazy early sunshine had drowned my scuffed black shoes, staining them a strange bronze.
I cling to my umbrella (the rain falls on my umbrella too, even if I can't see it) thinking about today, tomorrow, and yesterday. Things have been just a little hectic lately. It's odd that the things I spend my time doing are not directly for me, even if I gain satisfaction from sweating and stressing over all of it.
No, not stressing. Trying to unlearn years of upbringing — trying not to succumb to unnecessary worry — is harder than it sounds. I now have the ability to tell my mind to stop, but my body still behaves on its own accord.
I cling to my umbrella, wincing at the knots in my shoulders. Yes, much to do, but the world will still turn tomorrow if I should not wake. I have an equal existence, I play an equivalent part.
Lately, as I rouse from sleep, I have been catching myself smiling looking out the window when the morning sun begins to paint the world orange. I don't have a sense of purpose, no. There are things to do, perhaps mundane tasks to others, so maybe it's just the mere fact of having things to do. Having these passions which drive me forward (regardless of the knots in my shoulders), passions which lead me to fly high and dip down low. I am in love, deeply in love with life and the act of living, even if I would be amongst the first to say that to love life doesn't mean that you can't choose death.
The streets are quiet. The rain keeps people at home. The girl who shares the lift with me giggles and asks me if I live in the penthouse and thinks I have a better view from my window than hers on the 10th floor.
The streets are quiet and they shine like mirrors. Cars steal through the night like guilty animals and I put some soup on the stove, remembering once again that late night cooking is great therapy. Promises to keep and miles to go before I ...
27 August 2003, Wednesday, 12:26 AM
Alter ego of dandruff
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