My curtains are closed. Yet they brush aside (for a moment) just enough to let a sliver of light slip quietly over my face and into my sight. Across and over and into my space and I am blinded and awoken.
And I hate being awoken.
Fumbling for glasses they tip off the nightstand and crash to the floor with a sound that is magnified into a thousand shooting needles puncturing my head.
And I hate hangovers.
Lying about my room are the remnants of a weekend well-spent.
Or…maybe that’s not the definition of well-spent.
I think about a song I tried to write last night.
I see the results crumpled on the floor and sigh.
The room carries the scent of home. It’s that kind of feel good smell- like when its really hot out and you open the freezer door and inhale…
and…
it’s…
cold.
My room has the scattered fragments of my life dropped in one place and moved to another frequently by passing whorl winds. These are sometimes known as sisters.
It’s dark in my room.
And quiet.
Passerby don’t bother me. Passerby don’t like to run into dead ends…

oh and to anyone who ever cared about my story...i am working on another part of it...so yea.