It’s a Sunday morning. Nine o’clock. I forgot to shut my shades last night, the sun intruding, invading and reminding me to go enjoy the day. Seize it.
I need to go to the market. Buy some breakfast. Something light-an apple. No, I had that last weekend. A plum, its been awhile since I’ve had a plum.
I stretch. I’m up now, peeling off my sheets. The warmth and security of the blanket fades—alone again: just me and the world. No safety net. No comfy blanket.
I’ve never been one of those people who wakes up and rolls around; one of those people who stays in bed until twelve only to spend the next six hours complaining of how they wasted the day. It’s not worth the guilt; the guilt of knowing I’m not taking full advantage of time; life.
Time slips away quickly, catching the errands of life along with it, collecting whatever I produce that day.
Producing is the ultimatum of everyday. Me vs. what I produce. Me vs. how much I can produce. At least if I produce something I have something to show; something concrete. ‘Future Me’ will thank ‘Past Me’…or at least remember her.
No matter what I’m doing there’s always something else to be done. Slipping in and fading out, the possibilities of the day stay conscious of their ability to occupy; to fill a space of aimless thought. It’s probably better anyways that that space is filled than left to its own devices, circling down a spiral I’ve become familiar enough with to know it warrants fear.
Jacket, bag, keys. I check my watch: 9:40. I would’ve liked to have left already. If I go straight to one stand I can make it back by twelve and start my homework.
One-thirty to two-oclock. Cool.
Then I’ll watch one episode of Friday Night Lights. It’ll be 4. Fuck, that’s at least six hours until bed.
Hm…
I’ll go for a run. Talk to the roommates. Maybe I’ll stop at Tania’s for some coffee or something after. Head back around nine. Shower. Bed at ten.
Perfect.
I have too much spare time. Adults persistently tell me how they miss having free time and I guess I can see that. But it just kind of feels like I’m trying to fill my time; fill the hours. Going for a run kills an hour. Watching a movie kills two hours; killing time until bedtime. Sleep: the ultimate time killer. Then I wake up, starting the next day all over again. Killing time until inevitably, I don’t know, I get to do the stuff I’m fully engaged in. The things where I don’t think about what else there is. The activities where time isn’t a constraint, but rather something to keep an eye on-a responsibility I should keep in mind.
The metro makes me sad. Maybe sad is too broad a word…indifferent. Everyone seems so alone. Just another face; all emotionless; expressionless. In reality, they’re not really sad of course. They’re just doing their own thing. Why does solidarity always come off as so dreary? Probably because all the books, movies, music all portray it that way. But that’s just because writing and selling an eighty-paged script with only one star is way harder than dropping two hot-shot actors into a structured rom-com.
The woman to my right lets a small smirk sneak through her ‘too cool for emotions’ persona; a persona I must admit I’m immediately intrigued by. The whole ‘I only wear black because who has time to enjoy things like color’ persona. It’s cool I guess. Maybe not fun…but definitely cool.
Presumably a song came on she likes, or maybe she remembered something nice. It’s nice to see her capability of emotion. It’s a reminder that we’re not living in some formulated world; a world so easily calculated as when the next train will arrive or how many stops you have left on the metro. Not everything is so systematic and reliable. Life isn’t really linear; emotion isn’t linear. This woman lets the smirk stain her for a few moments. A smirk that seems to pacify her, put her to ease. It’s taking her out of her reality for that moment, or maybe putting her back into it.
Her moment’s quickly ruined though. Sitting across from me is a man. His face is white. Notebook paper white. His nails are overgrown and his hair runs into his face. He’s tall and thin. Too thin and his face is attentive, his eyes dashing from passenger to passenger. I know it’s going to happen. I know what’s about to come.
He begins chirping like a bird. Not one of those fancy birds either; the ones people look up to wide-eyed as the bird soars masculinely and authoritatively; as though it knows better. No, this man sounds like one who’s small…and helpless…and gray. Maybe even dying.
He’s mentally ill. He has some sort of something terrible. Too terrible for him to be conscious of why he’s drawing attention to himself. He chirps like a bird for a few more moments. It’s more of a squawk really. Like he’s being chased down and knows that he’s done for. A squawk of merely trying to give one thing back to the world; influence the world in some way within its last moments of life.
The cart goes completely silent. Suddenly everyone is reading or browsing their phones, assuming the somehow known protocol for situations such as these. The man nervously twitches his neck from side to side. On one side he is a bird. The other side he just repeats ‘Satan’ in his bird-squawk tone. I look down into my book. I’m not reading, of course, just trying to blend in. I’m emotionless; expressionless; trying my hardest to be ‘too cool.’
I get off the metro, the excitement of Bastille allowing me to get out of myself. I take a deep breath, shaking off the bird man. I hope he’s okay but I have to take care of myself first, right?
The vendors yell at me, pushing their orange and watermelon slices into the air. Their eagerness to get rid of the fruit turns me off to it. If they’re that eager to get rid of it, it doesn’t seem as valuable. I keep walking. I hear my feet on the pavement-a second of clarity, composure, steadiness.
He’s young. His skin is slightly tanned-the type of tan that is too familiar with its occupier; the lingering tan; the clingy tan. He’s rearranging his fruit, his face showing full concentration on the task. It’s just him and the fruit, within Bastille; not Bastille and the market allowing for his occupancy. I want the fruit he’s arranging. I walk over and buy two plums. He smiles at me, looking down to the fruit as I walk away.
I keep walking, noticing a florist. Waves of familiarity settle: my old job. My old ‘playing grounds.’ There’s a florist right across from my apartment, but I never have the time to stop in.
Anemones: my favorite. They’re classic, classic in a way that doesn’t ask to be classic. Classic in a way that’s still modern; a class that modernity looks up to. I become the woman I was when I first saw this flower. I feel a smile before I even acknowledge that I’m smiling—a natural response. A response triggered by something way more complex than I am.
I kneel down, my knees brushing on the cement. The anemone looks up at me, not asking for anything. It knows it’s worth being bought. It doesn’t need to advertise itself. It commands appreciation; commands it without me even noticing: confidence to its core.
I reach in, taking the petal gently, tenderly, its silky surface brushing off on my fingers, wrinkled and stiff from the cold. The smoothness continues, the flower leaning against my hand. I support its head, the anemone’s black core holding itself together. It doesn’t really need me or my support. Even as I look down at this flower, fully capable of destroying it, it still has the control. This flower has done it-become a complete entity; a finished product.
The middle of the head is made up of a bunch of small prickles. They’re purple—a deep eggplant-y purple. I’ve never seen a purple anemone before, only black ones. There are multiple prickles, each growing separately, but becoming apart of one complete flower. I pick it up, hand the woman a two piece and walk away.
My feet hit the cement heavily, producing a crunchy noise like the crunch of biting in to a perfectly crisp apple; the apples we used to pick in the beginning of fall. Looking up, the sun warms my face, marking me with its color; giving me that little gift of a tan. A little gift of something I didn’t even know I needed.
Jumping onto the metro, a man sits next to me. His scarf matches his shoes. His face is marked-marked by life. His eyes droop, but earnestly. He smiles at the woman across from him, the wrinkles fitting perfectly into place. He has smiled enough times for his body to remember-to create proof of an emotion; proof of his experience. Proof that he’s lived.
It’s morning, my body, intrinsically knowing what to do-knowing what’s best for it-forces a long stretch. A stretch that allows the comforting warmth of the night to be replaced by the comfort of my own blood; the comfort of my own skin.
I take a long inhale, filling myself with what I need: oxygen. With that inhale comes a confidence; a confidence stemming from merely knowing my body has what it needs.
Empowered, the sun hits my skin. Creeping in through the window, past the anemone, it warms my legs, touching them tenderly, almost motherly. They rub against each other; each leg welcoming the other to the day; giving each other a little tenderness. A little reminder that even though they spend the whole day separated, they’re not alone. The sun continues to peep into my room, looking out for me-an universal mom.
I stretch and pull off the sheets, cool air brushing off the sleep of the night.
I have all day.
I take a deep breath, breathing in a new perspective; breathing in familiarity. The relief flows slowly, taking its time, easily flushing out the agenda of the day…making room.
I remember it’s my birthday. Another year older and I feel it this time. As though something was fitted into my armor overnight, forcing me to stand a bit taller and giving me the confidence to smile, my mouth creating creases that will one day stick.
My hands pull the covers back over me, not ready to get out of bed yet. They’re more slender now, resembling my mother’s own hands slightly more. I move my fingers, seeing my tendons pop out on cue. It’s a machine.
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