the fog.

the book i’m reading mentions sleep. i fantasize about square feather pillows, European dimensions. some would be cool and soft, others firm and warm from my breath. one i would wrap my arms around. it doesn’t matter what color the pillowcase is, because i’ll have my eyes closed. the pillows will absorb the weight. my shoulders still think they are carrying, my backpack still making muscles ache. like some phantom limb lost in a drunk driving accident. it’s on the floor in the corner. it has four books, one notebook, my pens, makeup, camera, computer, project box with associated electronics components, some bubble wrap (unused), a microphone, a knife, dirty laundry, one pair of pants that won’t need washing yet, sunglasses case, sunglasses (my first decent pair, thanks to johanna), and ten unused coffee pods for an automated espresso maker. everything counts.

packing three days of my life, three-hour train. unpack. three days over there. re-pack. three hour train, unpack. four days here. repeat until summer.

in my fantasy there have to be pillows. i’ve tried to let the love of hammocks imprint itself deep inside, i’ve marveled at verbs like enchinchorrarse, meaning to envelop yourself in a hammock, en-hammock yourself. like when the recipe calls for incorporating the raisins into the batter in smooth, even strokes. yes, i am like that raisin.

Categorized as writing