Small Print

While my previous post was a rather dreary and miserable return to WP, I’d just like to clarify that I have never known true depression. It is not an affliction with which I wish to endure under pretense. No, so many beautiful people suffer from its drowning pressures, and I do not want to pretend for a second that I can comprehend what that’s like.

Rather, I am here in an emotional trench, similarly deep and solid as the icy pathways outside this winter. It is difficult to find the motivation to step into that freezing, wintry world and travel so many vehicular minutes to my temporary destination working with tomorrow’s children.

Small Print

Love’s Lethargy

Her long, slender legs were cocked up over the back of the sofa, her body slumped into a deep pit in the cushion. Her rear was the point of pressure, funneling her 100 lbs into that one tiny spot on the sofa. She lazily held a tragic romance novel open in one hand, and bent forward to brush her shin with the other. Ugh, how stubbly, she thought. Yet another thing to take care of. She decided that the shower and shave could wait until tomorrow. She had yet to put away days of laundry; yet to prepare her lunch for tomorrow; yet to feed the dog… and she was as engrossed in a tragic romance novel as a hardened New Yorker could possibly get, occasionally feeling sorry for the star-crossed lovers, but more frequently finding herself rolling her eyes, slapping the pages, and shouting, “Oh, get it together!” She was determined to finish everything she started, however, even if it compromised the tedious preparation of tomorrow’s lunch. I can just nuke a veggie patty, she resolved, and sank back into the tragedy. Something about navigating the choppy waters of literature served as gentle distraction from the dull goings-on of her daily life without her love. Not that he was absent from her life – he was simply away for days at a time, and the two would count down the milliseconds until an upcoming, much overdue embrace.

Her eyes would intermittently swim on the tragic lines of this borderline-boring tale of heart-wrenching grief. Instead of thinking on her extensive to-do list, she thought about how much better her own love affair was. She wasn’t wholly the bragging type; a New Yorker, yes, but she never idolized her own lifestyle. But this novel was meant to emulate the tragic realness of derailed and diminished love… so she would retreat away from these silly, invented characters and into her own memory bank. Who lives like them? She would reflect on the fantasies come to life with her lover – how could reality be so much more riveting and peaceful than FICTION?

She imagined his face the last time they convened, his eyes resting for a second on various parts of her face and body, his chest heaving with anxious exhilaration, and his smile – an ear-to-ear, face brightening smile, into which she fell spiraling into a canyon of hopeless adoration – his smile curling with each blink of his darting eyes. He asked her, “Is your eyeshadow gold today?” and brushed a hair behind her ear before gently lying kisses across her forehead. She chuckled to herself, remembering her bliss and blushing state of flattery – and her awkward, girlish response: “Are you a makeup guru?” Luckily for her, she recalled his lovestruck giggle and reply: “No, I just pay attention to all of your details.”

She did, too. She memorized every mutable tuft of hair that sprang rebelliously from his curly head; the boyish freckles spattered across his nose and cheekbones; the sharp geometry created by his handsome jaw; the neat alignment of his pretty teeth; residual glitter on his neck, the result of hours of nestling in his arms… oh, was she in love with him. She memorized his pitch variations during important explanations and appreciated every bit of his knowledge he’d shared with her, doing her a greater intellectual service than he could ever appreciate. His forceful, but alluring, touch – she could feel it along her waist to her hips; she replayed the times when she felt consumed by his masculinity, praying that he never stop caressing her. His compassionate nature and his laughably polite mannerisms to everyone he met; his ultimate prioritization of her wellbeing over his own. She closed the miserable novel and held it tightly to her chest, imagining her love story strewn across the pages instead. She held it as if it were him, and missed him.

Unmotivated to continue reading about such sad and unfortunate types, she gathered herself and sat down to relish in the fact that her happiness was around the corner. One day, they would save water by showering together as a nightly ritual; they’d fold laundry in unison while making fun of everyone in the Laundromat until she wanted to seal her nostrils from the stale, chemical stench of the establishment; they’d prepare complicated lunches together in fancy tupperware containers; and their dog would be the happiest and best-fed puppy in the city. She LOVED her future, and it had barely begun to unfold! With him, she felt weightless, invincible, powerful, and alight with promising ambition… Thank goodness for him, she thought over and over. Thank goodness for his contribution to me becoming Adult Me, with dreams and professional goals and compassion and understanding and forgiveness. Thank goodness it’s him that is my reality. People should read about US, she thought.

Dazzled, she toss the book aside and lay and missed him some more, and waited for the weekend.

Love’s Lethargy

I literally saved this document as “this abstract piece of shit”

In a rocket ship I floated past the infinite, far-reaching, seemingly impossible cosmos composed of the essences of September, October, November and December, spiraling through space and tumbling across the stars… there, I jumped from one brilliant light to the next. I was looking for the brightest star, which would always burn out when I finally reached it.


The black star was no longer a star, but a hole. I was falling and falling straight through it, without looking back, and I never thought I’d stop, I’d lost my mind somewhere way behind in another solar system entirely. Careening down a black hole of emotion, slamming into misshapen and busted debris caught in the celestial spiderwebs. “Woe and darkness,” the particles whispered, and all I wanted to do was piece them back together. But in space, there is no gravity so the pieces continued their pilgrimage around space until the space itself imploded….


…….and thus I was spit into the flames of the Planet of the Forgotten, after all I had tried to do. Here, the lights were dim and flickered glumly, but I could see the Sun in the distance and knew that self assurance and strength could get me there.


And I took the jump;

my adrenaline rushing briefly, my fear factor soaring and my heart throbbing for a suspended moment;

and I floated to a new world.


A world with brilliant lights of every color, sparkle, texture, size, all smiling as best as stars can. With their vivid grins they laughed and warmed up my life; I received a rocket ship as a gift of hospitality. And in my ship I could beat the nonforces of nothingness and travel from here to there as I pleased, managing my own surreal affairs without wondering what or who else was hurting or burning under the Sun.


These stars, these stars, how I love and miss them, how I want to collect them in a Constellation just for myself! To stand beneath in the dead of night, on some earthly soil and shriek up to it, praising its glory and uncommon nature. 


These stars, the opposite of the gloom-filled implosion of days before: no, here the light and cheer exploded into supernova of an electromagnetic orgasm, the colors and the smiles beyond anything I could handle until I felt so light in betwixt their ethereal support rods that I missed the debris landing on the windshield of my ship.


And it turned out that

the abundance of happiness is what caused them to burn out,

in the end. All good things tend to burn out early.


And then there was nothing left in space for the seasons to enhance, but me.




I literally saved this document as “this abstract piece of shit”