so like many things in life i let this slip away for a while.
it fell under a shelf, or behind a desk.
sometimes you use something and then you begin to use something else, and you forget about the first thing you started, or you lessen it's merit, then it resurfaces- you're confronted with it and you think..oh wow , now i do remember.
i remember what it meant to me, and why i had it.
my neck is cold, i'm in a room that isn't particularly warm. my hair is still damp from a shower and it doesnt help that chicago winter is creeping up.
this morning was the first real gust of it.
as i walked down monroe i thought
"please let me survive winter,
please let me survive winter."
then i thought of the little train who could
" i think i can,
i think i can".
and then i thought, i wonder how many people in the world are as childish as me.
i love it .
a boy just sat next to me.
there is a hum in the room, a hum of a heater, but the air is blowing down on me and its not very warm.
its just soft air.
moderate.
soft air, i like the way that sounds, it reminds me of clouds. or being in a plane, when you look out the window, all you see is soft air.
i've been waking up in the mid morning hours of night. i will call them twilight hours, or magic hours.
they are states between sleep and dreams and time and space.
i whisper what is going on in the state of my unconscious mind to the boy sleeping next to me.
sometimes he responds, usually he just uses touch as a language. its funny how love lets you rediscover this new language of speaking.
it makes me wonder about those who are blind, those who use solely sound and touch to speak.
it also makes me think of my grandpa, whose stroke has left him without words, he understands all but can only use gestures and touch. can you imagine?
something like the little mermaid whose voice was locked away in a seashell.
i asked him a question the other day about dual identity, he reached down and squeezed my hand so tight, telling me everything i needed to know. i told him i loved him, then he squeezed it again, and maybe once more for good luck.
i think he told me three paragraphs of language in that moment. 3 paragraphs of touch.
the boy in my bed tends to write essays in touch. on the nape of my neck, small of my back, leaving letters and sentences in my hair.
i awoke yesterday to tell him a car was on fire and he was the only one to put it out, everyone just watched. it was like a dance, or routine. the fire in the car starts, you put it out, it starts again, you put it out a second time, the flames capture this awful amount of attention, but people are just stumped. they arent directly affected, or their car, so they watch and they let you to continue this cycle, i bite my finger nails.
