it’s the light particles, really, more than the lineage of their peopled subjects or the composition of the air they hung in. capturing this week is impossible. the balloon affect, the swelling, the acute corporeality of every breath outside in the stars in the sway of the song. my song, swung around me, underneath my armpits, through my toes, stuck to me in my headphones, with no intention of being shared.
the days ran through and there’s motion again and i have to be a little proud of myself, because there’s space between my ribs, finally. i have a balcony and raindrops and enough of myself to keep walking.
sitting on my balcony - because i have a balcony - under the stars, on a beach chair and in a blanket. my ears are cold, but that’s a small price to pay because i’m warmer than i’ve been in years. i’m sitting outside in the dark and behind me my lit room looks like a playground through the window i clamber in and out. my thoughts are sacred out here, as i write about the crossovers between religion, dance and language, and how childhood softly merges into a future i am running past on moving sidewalks. there’s music and i’m journalling about horses and new friends that hold my whispers and know my childhood secrets without my ever saying them and a job i’m proud of and coffee that keeps all the engines running and i know i will crash next week but it’s okay because the coffee and the stars and the night air and the edge of coming down on my SSRI dose are cocooning me in a corner where i can create and hold my breathe as oxygen moves around me and i am thanking the universe for every second of suspension.
