remnants

i'm down to the last few soft-leaded pencils gifted to me from my late great-uncle, who was the first blood relation that made me believe that i might be a valid human being. the lead has shattered within the core over twenty years of moving, packing, sharpening, angsting. i can feel the wood splinter with a careless turn in the sharpener, and i flinch.

i can still use it like this. i can still hold it tightly enough to keep the last bit of lead from slipping out. i can't even read all the words printed on the side of it anymore, other hand 'hwa', 'drawing', and '6b'.

i remember drawing animals in distress, broken hands, full moons, stretched faces, with this pencil. i remember my great-uncle looking over my shoulder and encouraging me to make more shapes, to look at volumes in the world and think about how falling light creates shadows to define them to our eyes, to adoringly fill my sketchbook with illustrations of my life, my spaces, my dreams.

--

the rain continues to pour. i watch the radar because i cannot see the clouds from where i am, and i try to guess when the holes will reach me so i can go grocery shopping without getting drenched. whenever i put on my helmet during a break, the rain starts again before i reach the stairs.

welcome to autumn. welcome to days and weeks and months of rain. welcome to waiting for the day when it becomes too cold for the rain to reach the ground.

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18 September 2016 19:53

restarting

young rabbits scatter into the alleyway, not knowing which way to escape. the garden wall only gets taller, so they keep sprinting downhill.

motorcycling in cargo shorts, hiking boots, and a flannel top. the moon watches me tuck it away in the garage. i tell myself it's fine to put the cover on because i only rode half a mile and none of the parts are warm yet. "thank you," i whisper to the bike, running a hand over the cowl to check for dust. "i'll come back for you."

the door creaks conspicuously as it unravels, thudding into the concrete in front of my feet.

--

my thoughts are flat, stretched thin and taut across the surface of the earth. i breathe knowingly; the back of my chest rubs against my shirt. you will not always feel like this.

--

i ascended the cathedral twice today. why aren't you always training? i ask myself. i ask myself every day. no one takes the stairs beyond the eleventh floor. the elevators are alien; students pack in shoulder to shoulder and most of them ignore me.

"i love your hair!" one of them shouts from the back. i pull an earphone out and raise an eyebrow. she means me, right? they always mean me these days. people i can't recognize will recognize me and say hi. i always smile and ask them what's up. sometimes i make them feel awkward, and i'm not sure if i mean it.

"thanks," i reply. once, someone said to me, 'just thank them and accept the compliment and move on,' when i was struggling to justify not getting complimented.

--

last week, i checked my snake hut. it was still there. i added grapevine. it will probably stay there. someday, it won't be there anymore, and i'm okay with that.

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15 September 2016 22:15

october waxing

the shadows frosted overnight; dusty whiskered grass peers at me from the banks as i fly by. it is a sight that simultaneously exhilarates and fills me with dread. the afternoons are warm, but not hot. the soil sucks all available moisture in, ready to huddle for the winter.

not yet, i whisper to the trees. i'm scraping fallen pine needles every morning and my shoes take on a sticky sweet smell; i'm pushing all the old, dead wood into a pile behind the shed.

i find myself counting time in weeks, rather than days. i remember when i counted time in hours, and minutes, and ticked seconds off with my fingers. soon, i will observe whole months and years, and become a cold, hard carbon form.

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24 September 2015 07:57