the beautifully mundane:
some to most of this content is true.
December 23rd 4:38PM
It is an oddly perfect day. The kind that is preceded by an evening at home, with friends, soaked in red wine. The kind that tastes like freshly baked bread dipped in Italian oil. A night that included the perfect permission of enjoyment- setting the stage for the the allowance of rest without the necessitation of it- and my first few hours of the next day spent curled up in the morning sunlight. Solitude cut only with effortless companionship- walking beside my friend who is visiting from the west. Her voice carrying the mountain’s magnificent, introspective nature. She is the type of friend who’s presence halts my thoughts in their middle, ensuring an appreciation of the multitude of universal happen chances that led to us together in this life. I ponder every decision ever made by every person to ever exist that brought us to this moment. It is these thoughts that place the crushing weight of decision onto my shoulders. It is no wonder I cried considering what to have for breakfast. I settled on a cinnamon bagel- one must always allow themselves to find comfort when needed.
Later, as I saunter through the library reading cover after cover, I imagine each word being borrowed from a file in my brain and painted a different color for print. The humble rumblings of the mountains re-enter my focus. I slow beside the stacks on the back left of the basement level and look up; As if the ceiling beams have been waiting for me to come ask their opinion on the matter. Tiring easily of my dueling internal dialogues recently, I turn my attention elsewhere. My fingertips, using the glossy friction of skin to paper, peruse the dogs photographed in beautiful homes and welcome the familiar tightening in my chest that introduces the topic of my mother.
Our relationship playing out under soft light in my mind, as if replaying a film of countless mothers and daughters before us. A quote, or two, combined, both regarding the complexity of a woman’s relationship to her mother, arrives in bold letters across the dying light of the film. My brow furrows in consideration. Are these words meant to serve as a warning or a gift? A reminder that no matter the amount of collusion allowed to a young woman, she may never outrun the same fate as her mother. My anger melts, dripping through my fingertips and landing at the base of my throat. It has come fully dressed as the guilt I’ve come to count on.
December 24th 10:22AM
I nestle my head deeper into my right shoulder as I hear my mother walk softly into my room. My mind is still- the way it can exist only in-between the two sides of consciousness. One half second over the edge and the ripples begin descending. Each movement rocking the awareness awake inside of me. The empty room across the hall. The unused seat to my left. Half of my blood suspended in the wrong direction. My lungs pull as if trying to convince me to rectify the wrong. Instead, I lean my body to the left and shorten the distance between my mother and me. I squeeze my eyes together and pray to the nostalgia that only your childhood bedroom on Christmas Eve morning can bring- waiting for it to fill the spaces. As if hearing my thoughts, my mother whispers into the silence, I’m sorry you’re an only child on Christmas. I should have known better than to hope my feelings would skew from disappointment.
God chose such a unique torture- having placed a girl so filled with dread into such a beautiful life. The constant suffering of forced gratitude and guilt. Privilege as a source of shame, an invalidation of every thought. Deservance, which is not a word but ought to be, fought for tooth and nail. In the moments I find myself sitting still, appreciating the trees, I understand the crawl back to bleeding gums and broken knuckles is imminent. I am meant to be one with the darkness; I’m just not sure how I fit in yet.
00:10
I leave the clock on the microwave at ten seconds. I leave water in the bath, and the candles burning as I move through the doorway. Next time I’m here, it won’t be the same, I won’t be the same, but the time will not change, and my responsibilities will remain static. It has been ten seconds past zero o’clock, and I have no where to be and forever to get there, and right now I am just focusing on taking up space. Noticing the water’s movements in response to my body. Feeling my toes dig into the hardwood floors, practicing bending the flame with my breath. I am unsure of it every time.
I find surprise mixed with awe every time a thought passes demanding exploration. As if every preceding time must have been the last. Being surprised of my deserving as it rears it’s ugly head, or is offered, enthusiastically, by the woman in the tux. Delighted in my wrongness. Infatuated by the shattering of my certainty. I prefer to keep my needs small. Tightly organized into neat expectation. To keep the disappointments minimal, or at least, prepared for. As I suspected.
Small. A word without definition, for me. A vague sensation, less of a tangible thing than an underlying current I have found as a driving factor behind each facet of my life. A decision somewhere along the way to place my worth within its murky haze. A role I have learned seamlessly. Understanding the perfect balance between teasing the boundaries and knowing my place, as to stimulate the audience without threatening their power. Small. Sometimes meaning quiet, others hungry, others fluid. A word, like so many others, colored by its context.
I memorize the imprint left upon my sheets, an echo of the weight of my body, and cling to its proof of corporeality. I finish my third bath of the day and let the water drip into a puddle beneath my feet- it won’t be here when I come back. It is still 00:10 o’clock. In my bedroom, the candles still burn. I wrap the blue checkered towel around my shoulders and clean the bubbles from my ear and see a girl, or what of one once was, and wonder how I got from here to there.
