Yesterday afternoon I spent walking around the Pointe-Claire pool, talking to cherry trees and such. I discovered the library for all of ten minutes before closing time, concious of the looks I was receiving -- with my orange sandals, unbrushed hair, somewhat ripped clothing, and above all my dad's extremely faded rain-splattered old blue jacket -- sitting there reading that book I always read when at an unfamiliar library. (I'll finish it someday.)
There was a groundhog at the tracks today, and my brother rode my/Jenna's old bike around a bit.
Technically, I'm the only one in the house right now. Everybody else is outside, where I was until I came in. I had something else to say, but I don't remember....
That incessant clock ticking. No time for anything, and yet so many minutes pass when I do nothing but stare at the wall. Pondering my existence, wondering if anything will come of it. Every now and then I awake to the knowledge that I can only be one person, can only feel certain things. Yet I spend so much time being other people, more interesting people, people with lives and stories to tell. The ones who sit in a room and stare at the wall are the ones least inclined to be themselves, and no one else would become them. I think I'd better go downstairs and read...something. Nothing that would make me necessarily depressed. I'm not sure how much clear thinking I can take.
Why didn't anybody call?
Occasional flashes of sunlight.
1 comment:
Anne, I bet they were staring at you because you looked so god damn sexy....:)
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