I haven't let myself come to this place for a long time. I didn't remember that I had returned it to privacy. Something like sharing a secret with yourself. Writing out disappointment hurts worse when it's only your eyes judging; other eyes make me uncomfortable. Puts coats on words. Words are like skin. They need to breathe instead of: suffocate beneath covers. I'd rather face my disappointment in myself than feel uncomfortable in my own words.
My bones feel hard on this wood floor. The night shows angles and light but only when space is emptied of stuff: light has a place to go. Long rectangles move, seep slowly from the windows. Streetlight plunges, mimics sunlight. Screenlight mimics flashlight. I can forget time and measurement when I write. Sounds stir low pitches I can retrieve. Recall like childhood, deep under the covers and thinking about the curious sounds of footsteps, of engines, of appliances. Each meant something that I was not doing. I was laying still and quiet and inexperienced about the world and I listened to understand. Sounds meant life. They still do. Sounds are stories and I listen. Almost only when I write.
Night, quiet, light, movement, empty, house. I feel most at home inside this sandstorm.
