I'm supposed to get things done but I'm cold. I'm wearing sandals but no socks, T-shirt but no sweater, windows open after the rain and a cool breeze blowing in. But the rest of the house is so goddamn hot what else am I supposed to do? There's music and movement coming from the living room. Stationing there is not an option. I will remain here, cold.
Self-care. Consciousness. These are the things I'm supposed to be practicing. I put on an album, a relisten of a relisten, but the strings and syncopation take me too far away and before long I'm lost. A drop of rain hits me on the arm.
Getting things done is a lot. Activities are hard. Being cold burns more calories. I've brushed my teeth twice today, once accidentally, but I can't shake the feeling of sleeping with your mouth open. There are some things that don't get shook so easily.
I'm not taking notes, which could be a good thing. In a few days' time I'll get asked how my week was, did anything come up, anything I want to talk about. And I won't have much to say, I'll have no notes which I'll say could be a good sign. That nothing was so bad I had to write it down. Nothing so bad I needed to remember it. But then you even end up forgetting the good things.
My father has been dead nearly ten years. Where does the time go? Soon it will have been a third of my life, then a quarter, then half, then most. I'm trying to learn to talk about him more. It would be nice to say his name without crying, without having to push all that down. To say his name and keep on going, maybe even with a smile. To remember all the good times before they're all forgotten, all lost. Where does the time go?
I'll get up soon and put on a sweater, put on socks, close the window. The music winds down and I know how this turns out. But it's baby steps.
