Beds are made for unmaking. Midnights are for sleepy secrets. You watch Dead Poets; you could never be one; you are not a poet and you do not try; you cannot die and you do not try. In your dreams you walk in a straight line off a worn path to only gods know where: you call out a name, sometimes, in these dreams; the echoes insult you. There is much work to be done. There is much work to be undone. The universe does not give a damn but I do and you will never know.
At once – yet seemingly decades in the making – the blanket remembers the body it is wrapped around. It is still warm in places no other skins have touched, though coldest where you used to bury your face, to hide from the monsters you think watch you when you sleep. It has been years since you last hid from them; they’ve become bearable somehow, company in the longest and quietest hours, a friend almost.
I don’t sleep well. Haven’t for over three years. Summary prognosis: existential decay; immediate cause: overthinking. I should’ve gone to medical school. Should’ve taken Biology for premed. Should’ve become a brilliant neurosurgeon. Maybe then I’d feel like I’ve done more for the world than it has for me, that I could at least reciprocate its efforts at keeping me alive.
The smell is the same but it doesn’t match the room you wake up in: early morning dew lifting from dusty streets, heat from unventilated rooms, the sweet smell of unfinished brandy. The heart remains vulnerable to such reminiscences, even as the brain constantly flushes it out of the cache. Memory is precious and the mind has too little of it to spare. If a large fraction of memory were to devote itself to the details of a summer years and years ago, it would forget everything else that does not come close – and doubtless nothing ever will.
I accept a lot of my faults, and the few I don’t I chalk up to my stubbornness, which I fully accept. I had imagined a different life for me when I chose to leave: perhaps a different city, perhaps a different person, perhaps a different mind that calls for different things. Perhaps a different heart that calls for different desires. I accept now that I was wrong: I was stubborn to think the human changes with the habitat. The human changes whether they stay in one place or another. Or it doesn’t, particularly when it’s stubborn to a fault, particularly when it sees its stubbornness as an excusable flaw, particularly when stubbornness is the least of its many sad realities.
Turn at the corner where you first met. Look past the lamppost, into the side street where they disappear every afternoon on the way home. Maybe it’s still there, just as it is still here.
I eat facing restaurant entrances now. I pay attention to the sounds of vehicles passing by. I chain my wallet to my belt loop. I sleep with the lights on. I don’t drink enough coffee. I don’t drink enough soda. I stay away from quiet alleys. I watch my steps when I walk alone. I don’t listen to music during daily commutes. I don’t walk for hours on the way home. I don’t wander the city alone.
This place sprawls with people; the faces are not that different, but the often glaring lack of familiar ones is bittersweet.
I asked for this. I love this big city, with its looming towers and skyscrapers and the undying throb of energy even past midnight, but I’ve always hated change and this city is demanding so much of it from me.
I light candles for the parts of me that never get it right.
He argues there has to be a point. She smiles, placating, that’s what they want you to think. A cat walks in their midst, having jumped onto the table, long tail towering over their heads and swaying gently side to side. Meow, the cat says, silencing them both.
Kitty swipes at his King and sends it toppling to the floor; Kitty swipes at her Bishop, which hits her Knight and her Queen, and sends all three pieces falling to her lap. Kitty walks in circles and settles on their chess board for another nap. Together they reach for the cat’s fur and scratch until they hear the purr of contentment; quietly he marvels at his triumph and she marvels at the wonder of his words ever being true.
We need to iron our clothes though. You will iron our clothes, right?
No, why should we iron our clothes, we both burn through them.
Well I burned my uniforms twice. So.
This morning is a quiet one; barring the occasional sounds of vehicles, I hear nothing more than my own laboured breathing and the shuffle of feet in the kitchen while the elders of the house prepare for their busy day. The building has not opened its gates for business and the carpenters haven’t arrived. The neighbours are quiet. The dogs and roosters are quiet. The cat next door mewls for a while, but the sound is tiny and irrelevant, and soon gone.
Mornings are colder now. I sleep under four layers of blankets and still shiver, although that may be because the electric fan is on despite the cold; I can’t sleep without its gentle drone and the familiar sweep of air on my face. In a way it is like assisted breathing. Even during nights when I sleep like the dead, power outages wake me: I suffocate when the air is still and the world is quiet and dark; I remain restless until the neighbours’ generators come to life and break the silence with the loud rumble of its engines. I hate the sounds they make — grating, hoarse, sometimes tired — but I fall asleep not long after, so I can’t truly complain.
I often try not to think about how lonely this sounds.
Noon is slow, lethargic. Banks generally are, I suppose, and to ask for thrill in this environment would be to court danger.
Paperwork is tedious and pointless. Writings are emotionless, stern, concise to a fault, blunt and impartial like all else in the world that have little regard for the liberal arts. Business letter is a terrible redundancy; all letters have business. Business letters is a terrible misnomer; “business letters” aren’t written for people, they’re written for institutions, and are not letters so much as they are memorandums or circulars or notices or transactional correspondences. I realise I am being a romantic by insisting on the personal nature of letters, and I am not an expert on semantics and therefore am ill-qualified to argue the use of the word letter, but I shall remain stubborn on the matter: letters are for people to other people, and are filled with more meaning than submission of requirements and compliance to circulars and requests or invitations to so and so.
Nights are noisy. There is a bar right across the house now, always full of noisy patrons. This city has no zoning policies; where one day you have a quiet neighbourhood, the other you will find yourself in the middle of a budding night life capital. The bar has open-mic sessions during Fridays and Saturdays. Music is nice. Loud conversations are not. Shrieking laughter and drunken screaming are not. Large, open windows facing source of noise are not. Some nights the neighbours’ dogs like to join in the cacophony–one dog barks and triggers a canine round song. One neighbour owns a dozen roosters that take offence and consequently crow in the middle of the night to assert their territories, or cause a headache, who knows. One neighbour owns a chihuahua that just yips, a tiny sound compared to that of its other bigger fellows, but more annoying for its higher pitch.
I could kiss the cats of the subdivision: they’re quiet when the rest of the avenue is loud, and sometimes, when all noises die down and the silence becomes just a little bit suffocating, they mewl gently in the streets until dawn, or at least until the hum of the electric fan lulls me to sleep again.
At best cadence demands elegance
from gunshots hitting improbabilities
just kill; leave
mementos now or prepare questions
relations suffer through until vengeance
waxes wanes withers weeps