untitled ( creative nonfiction) Final Draft

 

(1)

I woke up and raised my white anthropology quilt over my body and face. The purpose being to sleep longer, but it’s impossible to do such a thing when the sun light is so heavy.

I woke up to the sun blinding my swollen eyes through my own blinds that are the color of a light skinned camel. Sweat pills rolling off the tip of my nose and down the lower arch of my back, just dripping down slowly toward the crease of my ass, short blonde hairs covered in something like dew drops. I wish I could form an exact replica in the reader’s mind of what the sun looks like through a white blanket. It’s powerful in its’ neutrality, gestures toward the skin, and softness to each hair on your body. Hairs lying flat and nearly ever standing tall. When you’re wearing just underwear the skin reacts to anything the same way it does against cold metal.

It’s like sitting in a room of white walls. Sitting there, waiting patiently, for something to wake this unsettling form of relaxation. It’s strengthening your ability of hearing just silence and seeing the complexity of the color white.

There’s an intimate connection you create when you’re not only looking at skin against skin but skin against linens.

_ _ _ _

 

Loose hairs always seem to find their way underneath your pillow,

your six pillows,

or in your bedside table lamp made of twigs.

They hang lightly and neither of us know how they ended up there.

You missed me when you found that hair scattered across those grey sheets.

You would tell me you , “went back home after class to pass out and found one of your hairs on my pillow.”.

Now every time I wake up and see you I follow your hair across the contrasting shades of grey and think of how distinct these colors now come out to be.

 

_ _ _ _

 

I close my eyes while imagining what a bed is, completely full.

 

I know where your body would be placed,

I know the positions you’d be in,

arms crossed or folded over me, usually crossed or pressed up against the cold wall,

I know when you get too hot from my heat,

one thousand degrees, and your own,

and lying here with my own bed half full,

I can feel these thin sheets like nothing else.

 

A cold pillow in between my legs, not worrying on having to flip it for either side is just enough.

Pressed down through the night but still there as comfort and support for my own weight of thinking ( of you).

 

I caught myself with two pillows yesterday.

 

— I am curious of less thread here.

Instead of draping over my body in whole white stitches,

I know more for your rough skin draped across my stomach,

Than for a single layer of sheet with no blood line.

 

I know more for the structure of your lips,

The creases that form this uneven line,

The way you nibble at your bottom lip when thoughts cross your mind,

The way they intertwine with mine and yet they’re still more than I know of my own.

 

Your neck has small divots of old freckles, some new.

And your arms are textured the same,

On the back of your right elbow you have what looks like a million freckles gathered in one spot,

and I am still able to find the skin underneath and it’s again,  so soft.

 

Seeming a space away,

seams too simple.

 

I drape the sleeve of your old sweatshirt across my chest and hold onto the hood.

 

_ _ _ _

 

Searching through the sun’s form of the color white,

I come across my own skin layered on top of another white,

mattress.

Thinking of feeling,

like I’m lying by myself in between two white cotton bed sheets.

 

__________________________________________________

(2)

My morning began by me sitting alone, myself, in a Moveable Feast.  The feast that keeps moving.

I ordered a quiche lorraine, heated to fit the needs of this drowsy day. I bought myself a cup of hot stumptown coffee which you serve yourself in a separate room. I sat alone in a room surrounded by long, brightly lit windows and twelve foot ceilings. In the corner of this room was a group of businessmen that looked as if they had just come out of the woods at ten in the morning. I heard one in a black and white padded coat say, “ It’s because our Mondays are always the same!!! Today’s no different!” We’re sitting underneath a roof of billowing rain and overcast clouds pitching from West to East.  Lingering in my mind, “Today’s no different.” I felt eyes on me but I had seven minutes to catch the train down the road and I was just focused on moving.

My second feast was oatmeal dashed with lavender sugar and vines of sweet grapes. The sugar was crystallized and purple. It smelled like lotion your grandma would buy in desperate need of a subtle scent. By the second part of my meal, my coffee ran cool and I had to bring my morning snack to the train which I made for once. The lid fell off of my coffee cup while I was walking quickly to catch it and I watched raindrops as they mixed in with the fresh brew. By the time I got to the train there was a full second layer of water on top of my already cold coffee like when oil and water mix. My bangs are so long right now that they act as an extra coverage to keep the rain from hitting my face, I love this rain.

 

_ _ _ _

I made it to the city. The city is what distracts me from thinking of my bed. I forgot to make my bed yesterday and the day before that and today. When I think of laying in there under the sun, my legs get all weak and shaky. Still a downpour outside and from the station you can just hear the spats of rain on the glass enclosed roof. I normally never look up in the station because I’m usually so focused on making  it to my classes on time. No matter the weather I just book it because walking to class versus taking the ‘L’ makes up for my exercise this week, and next, and the week after.  It’s interesting, because of paranoia, I think in my head almost every walk,

‘I’m walking to a great song right now by myself in a huge city, why does nothing jurassic happen to me. Well over five times today, kids have been beaten or shot, stolen, people have been assaulted, spoken down to, but nothing traumatic has happened to me. Why?’

I can’t explain why that thought always crosses my mind. Probably because of everything that has happened in 2015/16 with the world, probably the reason I started having breathing problems this semester. I miss my bed.

_ _ _ _

 

I was crossing South Wabash and Madison, about ten minutes left to my walk. I had twelve seconds left on my crossing sign. I waved to this woman in a gold Chrysler  signaling her to go but she insisted I cross. I was halfway across the street when I looked up and she was going about as fast as I was walking. Her car was moving and I noticed I would still be in front of her car by the time she got to where I was. I was right in front of her left headlight as it turned in toward me, without hitting me, and I jumped in front of her car. I didn’t have a chance to see her face but I was in such shock of her almost hitting me that for the first time in my life I punched a car window. I punched her window right near the glass above the dashboard and the side of the car, in the middle of screaming, “Are you fucking kidding me?!” I felt pissed but at the same time I felt very little to no emotion. Needless to say she drove off and my hand was bruised. I didn’t get anything out of it other than that people are still assholes.  The people crossing in front of me coming toward me were swearing her off as well and I didn’t realize how bad the situation was until about five minutes after because I was in shock.

 

_ _ _ _

 

I got to class in fifteen minutes instead of ten and as soon as I got there I thought I would be able to catch my breath. But when I sat down my throat felt like it was closing and my ears were tingling and my jaw was sore and my head felt stuffed of something polluted in grey and all I wanted was to leave.

I had the first signs of a panic attack from anxiety that has gotten deeper over the year and right then and there I realized how much I missed breathing. I’ve experienced a fresh breath in the essence of the mountains and clear blue lakes full of heavy rocks and light moss. I’ve experienced a fresh breath in the essence of seeing only the ocean around me or the windmills flashing at night across cornfields on route 65 in Indiana. I’ve experienced a fresh breath in the essence of freezing water and numbness to each speckle of skin on my body or the breath you breathe in in yoga for eight seconds and breathe out for ten. I experienced losing my breath jumping off of a cliff this summer and getting the air knocked out of me for the first time ever and I was not expecting it to happen again. I realized in that moment, the things we truly take for granted like being able to carry a steady breath.

 

_ _ _ _

 

Yet at the end of the night I’m still sitting in my bed waiting for it to be full. I’m sitting here figuring out how to put words together and what words to use. I’m waiting for a weekend where it isn’t my own when it is full. And still, somehow I have been able to find that breath again and the essence of what the next morning will be able to give me.

 

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