a returning of sorts
2073-05-31 & 7:22 p.m.

infrequently, i have thought of this journal. turning back, i am confronted by the present. wyoming is a big bridge made of fresh/not decaying orange peels and sunshine in the midst of snow and windowsills that are a little too big for their britches. the milk running out, chocolate melting into the unsaveable rug, my roommate's beard growing longer all mark the passing of time.
somehow, it has been almost half a year that i have been here. somehow, i have fallen so deeply in love that the hurt from years past is nothing more than a scratch on the ear, a vague eerie blue memory of something never quite tangible.
i'm thinking of moving to connecticut with him.
and now? what do i tell you all? does anyone still attempt to read this?
it is a warm scandinavian bomb shelter in here, all single light bulbs and nomadic poetry books and i'm not quite sure how we all speak in code but still understand each other. words like 'hegemony' are laughed at but it's not really funny because somewhere there's an academic drinking blue pen ink and snorting chalk dust.
i do not snort chalk dust. rather, i gorge myself on the occasional lint falling from my hair, a single mark made in a wall, a stone, your finger so you are not forgotten. and fifty years down the road, you will walk by the person who lives where you live now and never know the specifics of how they smell like thyme or believe in letters in bottles. and you will not have locked eyes but you will have thought about the other.
fifty years from now?:
windowsills and the ocean and wherehasthetimegone but not too many of those and strawberry gardens and lone violins on a wraparound porch and ragged sunflowers that i will love to death and love, of course love