It’s 8:40 pm. It might as well be 8:40 pm forever, and this is all I do. Write, write, write, walk around.
Some guy spit on the sidewalk walking past me and I swear I could feel it on my eyelashes. I should feel something more. Life is filled with these subtle, obscene social gestures from total strangers.
Walking, and walking home around midnight, some guy started following me and shouting; asking me where I was going. And I pulled a shank out of my hair. There’s nothing subtle about that.
Every morning I open my eyes and marvel at how painful it can be to lie still for seven or eight hours. A series of information enters my mind, generally reminding me that it’s going to be a struggle to prepare to leave and a struggle to get enough done when I’m out there. This morning, and most mornings I try to come to terms with myself; to some level of acceptance and self-love, but not so much so that I panic at how thoroughly screwed I am.
I shake off memories of dreams that are only pleasant when I’m having them, and disturbing in the light of day; getting lost on the highways, ex-friends coming out to me, being recognized for my work.
Sometime an eternity or two months or so ago, I spoke to my ex-friend who said she used to have a narrative for her life but now she doesn’t. I refused to relate at the time, but now not so much.
Because all I know is the present, and it’s 9:06 pm.