In a blue room, I sit in facingan ashless brick fireplace, devoid of cardinal movement. Ulysses hangs in the entrance to the light blue house on Davis Avenue-
It is spring, a few birds flit and perch on the branches of empty trees, easily seen as the bearings I feel I lost somewhere along the line I was taught to walk by those supposedly wiser than myself.
I’m not alone in this room, though, there are three of us: two others sit beside me, every person contemplating survival in some future as we bootleg our way to salvation with each knife to the cutting board and scratch and cut and gasp of a needle taken from the record’s grasp and grooves too hastily.
I am among friends and feel alone but it a warm loneliness, a deep melancholy highlighted by a thin strip of sunshine, when I arrive at the conclusion that it is not so terrible to feel alone because it cannot not last forever.
I only have to look to my right to find comfort in two parallel minds or swing my eyes around the room, suddenly energized to spend an hour organizing the stacks of books that litter the living room
but then I will inevitably begin to read.
which is not bad, I don’t condemn it I just have a very active imagination and get attached to characters pretty quickly. Their world becomes mine for as long as I can remain there because sometimes its just easier to hide for while in a nearby galaxy but the problem is books end too, just like loneliness before it.
I delight in the words I find but know they cannot last forever. They are given brief life, small brilliance in the animation of my neurons, but inevitably perish as my
eyes leave their inky forms.