vendredi 29 août 2008

I wake up at 6 a.m, my blood burning moist heat. It's still dark out, even when i turn on the lights; and i scrunch my eyes closed, wrinkling the nose and knitting the brows . I step in the shower, and i see bugs on the wall. Three different species of bugs, and the arachnid trio cringe and distort their bodies while the shower head spits. I stand still in the shower, allowing the spit to cogently pull my hair over my eyes, my nose, and shoulders.

I make myself a cup and recline with the 'Palm Beach Post'. Water droplets seeped through gray words I've just read. I thought about art then, and what the color gray does for me. I thought about the sea's shore at night, the fog in St. Augustine, the buckets at work, the sidewalks in your city; and I couldn't find more reason to support my love and appreciation. I thought about literature then, and wanted to write about it.

I wanted to write everything down that my lateral holes couldn't take in from the outside. I wanted to cramp my wrist, and hurt the tender spot on the pinkie where the pen lays. Something so descriptive and vivid; something beautifully important to the past, present and future. I could live underneath this world, if so.