yamunahopwood
I seem to be caught in the middle of everything. Even after all this time I've spent throwing myself towards one side or another. I still haven't landed anywhere. I still haven't hit a wall. I'm still rolling about like shopping bags in a trunk. I'm unstickable. I'm unkeepable. And I never feel one way or another.
Plates. Pennies. Pots. Pans. Gold's disabled brother: copper.
I duck behind every opportunity and count my blessings, wondering how long they'll last, wondering if they'll fade over time, if I keep them.
Junkyards are the graveyards of kitchen appliances. Every oven a tomb. The stench is the same stench. Everything is death and dying in a junkyard. Everything is salty from the rain.
The supermarket is the loveliest thing about living in a suburb. The joy of waking up, shutting up, and driving to an an office where a man in a stained silk tie spends his time telling you how replaceable you are, only to step into a cool white abyss with isles of decisions. You are the God of your refrigerator. You are the King of your pantry. You can choose between thirteen different apple juices, and for thirty seconds, you know that you have complete control.
When writing, I always split myself in two. I am the writer and the reader. I defend and criticize. I am always at war with myself and when I'm done, I crumple up the empty page and try again. Someday, I hope to make peace with myself. Someday, I hope there will be peace in the world.
What is a day if not filled with excitement? Life is not a line; our existence does not pivot around one frosted moment of happiness. We are not meant to wait, we are not meant to have patience. We sit here, bored and uninspired, twiddling our thumbs to the clock and we cannot break free.
I like the dry rings of coasterless coffee mugs that hover crustily above my grandfather's desk. They overlap, but only slightly, and I like to imagine him sitting there, sipping his coffee with a mouthful of ink as he contemplates life, love, and the daily crossword for twenty-five years and counting. Two sugars, no cream, and a ball-point pen, from eight-thirty to noon: his mind darts from bad memories to nine down and the itch beneath his sock.
There is just something about jazz on a rainy day. The thick warble of a grandfather cello that pulls my heartstrings to the ground at five a.m. Saxophones across the world sing sugar-laced love songs and everything is blue outside. The yard is black-browed and blowsy.
Blunt as morning coffee.
If only one could muster up the courage to make oneself complete. With shyness, we stutter, stutter, and stutter, unable to say what we mean until one's need for love has gone.
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