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 maybe. No, I had that last weekend. A plum, its been awhile since I’ve had a plum. I stretch. I’m up now, peeling my sheets off. The warmth and security of the blanket fades—alone again. Just me and the world. No safety net. No comfy blanket to cover me.
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.’
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 actually that that space is filled than left to its own devices.
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. 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. Killing time until inevitably, I don’t know, I get to do the stuff I’m fully engaged in. The activities where time isn’t a constraint, but rather something to keep an eye on-a responsibility I should keep in mind.
I get off the metro, the excitement of Bastille allowing me to get out of myself. 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 just 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 shows full concentration on this 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 onto me. My old job. My old ‘playing grounds.’
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 his 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 to enjoy.
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.
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