1/21/11

I haven't slept well in the last few days because there's a missing triangle of chest hair. I seem to be taking it well-enough. I'm not woe. I'm not thinking. I'm just hungry. It's like I'm uncomfortable, or my eyes need something to see, something surprising, something past all of the things I've chosen: wet street, drowning mobiles, the sight of the sound of the tire as it shh-splashes onto the sidewalk, the imprint of cloth, Nevada St., kitchen's still clean!, pile of wet clothes on the tile, shower steam, blank creme shower wall, body parts, hair, concealer beneath eyes to hide the sleepless half-moon pies. The good thing: there's a silence you hardly get anymore because everyone always wants to talk or hear something or learn something or work or run and all of that noise, you get to stop maintaining relationships with people, if only slightly, but only at night, alone, when you've said your goodnights.

And last night was thrilling. I ate food (which didn't exactly stifle the hunger) I ate orange creme ice cream which reminded me of my childhood, I edited good writing, writing that got me excited, that made me think Print! won't! Die!, I looked at pictures of things that inspire me and gauzily daydreamed of cakes & flowers & fields & clothing. I watched tv shows until finally, finally my eyes burned, but I didn't watch them actually. The whole time I felt excited. In love. Unafraid.