sometimes i try and remember how i started. when. and why.
i can't, though. for as long as i can remember i have been counting letters, arranging them. i hear a phrase and i start writing it out in my head. sometimes i'll scratch it into my palm or write it on the roof of my mouth with my tongue or scribble it into the air. maybe the letters can be neatly arranged in pairs. maybe in groups of three. maybe they fall into a one-two-one pattern or a two-one-two. i keep trying until they are ordered. sometimes i have to switch between writing numbers out and not, between having contractions and not, between abbreviations and none. sometimes, if nothing is working, i'll add a word or two. nothing big, an "oh" here, an "and" there. just small things so they'll finally fit.
i never really thought much about it. it was just something i did. we all have our quirks.
and then i started to spend my time in movie theaters wondering when the shooter was going to come in. debating whether i would run or hide when he did. looking at the exits. figuring out exactly what i would to to protect myself and the people around me. every single movie, every single time. of course, it's been about six months now and the shooter has never come. there's also the thing with the headlights in my car. every minute or so my fingers move a few centimeters away from the wheel to make sure that my lights are still on. that people are still aware that i am here. they always are. i still check. and when i'm not driving, my fingers itch to know. "are the lights on?" i ask again and again and again until even i am sick of hearing the question.
so i arrange letters, and i never really thought much about it. but maybe being overly fond of sadness isn't all there is to me.
***
i know i already posted something today and i dunno why i'm writing this other than the fact that it is eleven:seventeen pm, my husband is playing video games, and there is the ghost of a lump in the back of my throat. i was too lazy to shower today and now i'm too lazy to walk to my bedroom to read and sleep. i was going to write something pretty... but then i didn't. maybe tomorrow.
*Why Do I Keep Counting? - The Killers
i can't, though. for as long as i can remember i have been counting letters, arranging them. i hear a phrase and i start writing it out in my head. sometimes i'll scratch it into my palm or write it on the roof of my mouth with my tongue or scribble it into the air. maybe the letters can be neatly arranged in pairs. maybe in groups of three. maybe they fall into a one-two-one pattern or a two-one-two. i keep trying until they are ordered. sometimes i have to switch between writing numbers out and not, between having contractions and not, between abbreviations and none. sometimes, if nothing is working, i'll add a word or two. nothing big, an "oh" here, an "and" there. just small things so they'll finally fit.
i never really thought much about it. it was just something i did. we all have our quirks.
and then i started to spend my time in movie theaters wondering when the shooter was going to come in. debating whether i would run or hide when he did. looking at the exits. figuring out exactly what i would to to protect myself and the people around me. every single movie, every single time. of course, it's been about six months now and the shooter has never come. there's also the thing with the headlights in my car. every minute or so my fingers move a few centimeters away from the wheel to make sure that my lights are still on. that people are still aware that i am here. they always are. i still check. and when i'm not driving, my fingers itch to know. "are the lights on?" i ask again and again and again until even i am sick of hearing the question.
so i arrange letters, and i never really thought much about it. but maybe being overly fond of sadness isn't all there is to me.
***
i know i already posted something today and i dunno why i'm writing this other than the fact that it is eleven:seventeen pm, my husband is playing video games, and there is the ghost of a lump in the back of my throat. i was too lazy to shower today and now i'm too lazy to walk to my bedroom to read and sleep. i was going to write something pretty... but then i didn't. maybe tomorrow.
*Why Do I Keep Counting? - The Killers
is this a personal post or fiction?
ReplyDeletepersonal, but i've been thinking that with a little fiction it can be transformed into a pretty good piece.
Delete